The Sacred Art of Redamancy
by Jubalii
Summary: Since time immemorial, the Great Witch of Eldwitch Wood has demanded a tithe: a portion of harvest in exchange for protection. After a year of hardship, Labyrinthia simply can't make ends meet while keeping their part of the bargain. In a desperate bid, they offer something they consider equally important: a human life.
1. Honor

It was the greatest honor.

Espella Cantabella knew the sabbats like the back of her hand. As the only child of both the village elder and the high priestess of Labyrinthia, her entire life was built around the Wheel of the Year and its many ceremonies. It had been known that, upon her mother's death, she would take up the mantle as high priestess. It was both a duty and an honor, one that she had hoped to have more time to prepare for. But her mother had passed, leaving the village with a high priestess of only eighteen summers.

The job was not without its perks. Had she been born an average girl, even as the daughter of the village elder, she would have been subject to the same laborious tasks of planting and harvesting that other maidens must endure. She would have been illiterate, unable to write her own name. She would have been encouraged to marry, if only to raise her father's status. Such a life would have left her miserable, depressed and, mostly likely, dead before middle age.

But as the high priestess, she was excused from menial work. She had been taught to read and write from a young age, as well as given privileged access to her mother's extensive collection of tomes and grimoires. She need not marry at all, so long as she begat the daughter that would one day replace _her_.

She had also been blessed with ample free time to further her studies, to expand her knowledge of the ancient magics that colored both sky and sea. She knew the history of the world from the beginning, and had spent countless hours schooled in the rites and spells that would protect Labyrinthia from invaders, plagues, and swarms of creatures no mortal man could dare defeat alone. The burden of the high priestess was to protect her village unto death, to give everything she had in ensuring their survival.

Still, her normal duties didn't revolve around what might happen; they were tied intrinsically to what _did _happen, each and every season. The perpetual cycle of growth and retreat, the birth and death of the Sun, round and round and round again. It was her job to observe the sacred equinoxes and solstices, to guide her people in the glorious celebration of life and death, and to remind them to be thankful for whatever blessings the gods decide to impart.

The autumnal equinox, or Mabon, was undoubtedly her favorite celebration. The world around her was dying, and yet it felt so alive. Espella loved the pale green fields beside the river, dotted with snowy white sheep. She loved the golden fields of wheat, the oats that smelled of warm sunshine. She loved the brilliant reds and yellows that burst forth from previously green trees, a kaleidoscope of color against the waning blue sky. The farmers grumbled about the shortened daylight hours, and the mothers worried about the coming frosts, but she knew to expect it. It was her example that would help them take the joys and the sorrows of the season together, after all.

Mabon was important in its own right, of course, but the sabbat heralded another hallowed tradition—the annual tithe. Each year, a portion of Labyrinthia's harvest was offered up as a tribute to the Great Witch of Eldwitch Wood. It was the same for every town, village, and hamlet in the surrounding countryside. No one dared to dishonor the ancient custom, one that had been carefully observed since time immemorial.

The tithe was so old that no one could remember the initial reasoning. Even the high priestesses had no clear-cut record of why it started. It may have been a symbol of goodwill between the humans and the Great Witch, who reigns supreme over her kind. It might have even been the end result of an ancient bargain: land tax from a centuries-old deal. Or perhaps it was only a plea for mercy against the deadly magic that all witches yield—human life in exchange for sustenance.

No matter the reason, every family gave what they could spare at the end of the harvest season. From each according to his ability, with enough left in their cellars and lofts to survive the harsh winter. For as long as Espella could recall, the ceremonial cart—in itself a gift, made exclusively for the tithe—had always overflowed with a rainbow of bounty: russet carrots, earthy potatoes, orange pumpkins, beige gourds, and of course the crisp red apples. So fitted, it made a beautiful sight as it was wheeled into the Wood and left for the witches to collect.

Mabontide was usually a happy time, full of good food and gratitude. However, this year there was precious little to be thankful for. The spring was unnaturally boggy, delaying planting until it was almost too late. If that wasn't bad enough, the seasonal rains failed to arrive in the summer; the sun had mercilessly baked the fields until they were scorched through, leaving crops withered and limp in their furrows. The farmers prayed, hoped, and ripped at their beards in anguish, but to no avail—the earth bore little fruit that summer.

Espella had seen a portent in the arrival of the blackbirds, dark screaming shapes that blanketed the thatched roofs for days at a time. They picked over the fields, fighting against the farmhands that dared to beat them away from the corn and oats. They left when the rains finally arrived… with her mother's soul on their wings.

There had been no time to grieve. As quickly had the blackbirds gone, the mice came. They were so numerous that entire stores of grain were empty within two nights' time. The only ones satisfied with the situation were the cats, who could eat their fill and still have more than enough left over. The villagers, at their wit's end, looked to their high priestess for an answer; she could give them nothing, save for words of encouragement in the face of adversity.

A ripple of unease settled deeply into the peaceful fabric of her beloved village. There was barely enough food to last the winter as it was, and now they were tasked with separating the traditional tithe portion. There was no way to accomplish this without starving, but they dared not deny the Great Witch her tithe. Could such a thing even be done?

Rumors were whispered, stories about the olden days, about things that happened in the Times Before. A plague, resistant to all magic, that wiped entire cities from the map. A village that refused to pay tithe, only to suffer when every baby within the year was both breech and dead. Another village, nameless, whose children were driven mad by invisible spirits and burned three of their own at the stake.

Worst of all were the whispered tales of the Northmen, who would certainly invade if the Great Witch's protection lifted from their land: the razing of cities, the slaying of children, the women who were captured as slaves, the unspeakable horror of the blood-eagle. It was only whispered about in the taverns by men who did not dare speak aloud in the street. But men speak to their wives, and wives speak to their own.

Her father journeyed to meet with other town leaders, that they might discuss what could be done. Labyrinthia was not alone in its misery; the year had been a particularly hard one for everyone in the land. The towns near the oceans were offering more fish in lieu of grains. Others had given their normal tithes, hoping to increase their meager leftovers with what could be gathered or hunted. Still others were relying on trade routes to bring food from elsewhere. However, no town was certain that they would all survive the harsh winter to come.

Her father, Arthur Cantabella, was Labyrinthia's village leader. Whatever he chose, the other families would follow on without fail. He would not take this decision lightly, not when one wrong choice could equal the village's collective starvation. She wished that her mother had not left so soon; the high priestess could have offered him an opinion besides his own. Espella could only watch, helpless, as he sat hunched over the hearth at midnight. He stared at the rushlight without seeing, lost in thought and seeming far older than his middle years.

She was as surprised as everyone else when he called an impromptu assembly within a fortnight of the Mabon sabbat. Espella had noticed no real change in his demeanor, and yet when he appeared before the gathered crowd he seemed resigned to his decision… whatever it might be. She had watched anxiously as he'd taken his place on the high platform, arms raised and narrow eyes glinting as he stared down at them for a long moment.

"Labyrinthia," he stated, with an air of finality, "will give tithe, as is custom." She was prepared for the sigh, part relief and part dread, that came involuntarily from the mouths of every villager. They were glad, of course, that the choice no longer rested with them. But now came new hardships, of how to straddle the line between hunger and plenty. Even she relaxed, prepared to do what she must to keep them all alive until Ostara.

But he was not finished.

"We will give tithe, but not according to our tradition. I cannot, in good faith, allow for the taking of nourishment from young mouths. We have all heard the old words, spoken like an incantation year after year. _Each according to his ability_. We haven't the ability to offer our food, and so we must offer up something as equally precious. The oblation will not be of food, but of flesh. It will be one of our own. I have decided."

His words sparked an outcry, voices rising into a collective wail; Espella felt its reverberation in her chest, the echo of something ancient and primal. That was a ghastly choice, a sickening choice… and yet what else could be done? They had no extra fish, no plentiful game, no caravans brimming with exotic supplies. Her father was right: they could only offer what was rightfully theirs. That was the exchange—it must be just as precious, and as freely given as any other tithe. One life as the price for many.

His chosen was a proper sacrifice, one of the best candidates that the village had to offer. Sir Zacharias Barnham: young, talented, virile… orphaned. There would be no grief-stricken parents to lash out at his going. As a boy he had been taken in by a benevolent lord, raised beneath the Sign of the Owl and trained for a position in the Knight's Order. He'd even been given the opportunity to study a season with the London masters.

He was not advanced enough to be a lord, or own his own land, and yet he was independent of any master. His loss would be mourned by the town—especially by the young ladies—but his disappearance would not cause a vital disrupt to Labyrinthia's infrastructure. It was, in a manner of speaking, a perfect choice. There was no way to refute it, and no one willing to do so, but neither were they keen to celebrate the death of someone so promising. For he would die, wouldn't he? What else might a witch do with a human soul?

Besides, Sir Barnham seemed to embody the spirit of autumn. His skin was a rich tan, the naturally warm tint aided further by the coming and going of the seasons. And his hair was the shade of rowan trees, stark in the gleaming reflection of his armor. Even his eyes, said her father, were the gray, dewy light of an autumn dawn.

But in that, he was wrong.

It was true that his eyes were gray. However, they were _not _the soft, sleepy gray of soft, cozy nights that bowed to halcyon days. They were not autumn eyes, and certainly not Mabon ones. Sir Barnham's eyes were the stormy slate of a midwinter blizzard. They were the sharp, icy gray of elements that drove out the sun, that never surrendered but were instead crushed, choked into submission by the coming spring.

As high priestess, it was her duty to prepare the tithe, and it was a great honor. She abused that honor, staring straight into the frozen depths of his gaze as she helped her handmaidens dress him for a journey to the unknown. His body yielded to their ministering hands without a fuss, and yet the blizzard within him raged on still. It brewed in his irises as they dressed him: a new doublet, an embroidered jerkin, fashionable hose, and weatherproofed boots.

It was her honor to arrange the sapphire bracelets on his wrists, to drape the heavy cloak over his shoulders, to pin it at his breast with the lapis lazuli brooch. The crown was last of all, woven by her just this morning and still smelling of the forest. She placed it herself over his ears, admiring the golden-green leaves against the shock of rowan red. Strings of yellow agate draped the crown like glaze on a sweet roll, resting above the shaggy bangs on his forehead.

Thusly clad he seemed like a true spirit of the season, a forest king in his finery. The handmaidens vacated the chamber, leaving the two of them alone; neither spoke, although they stood so close that her breath stirred the fur lining his cloak. She stared, unafraid, into the storm, wondering what thoughts brewed beyond the roiling tempest.

She wanted… she wanted to commune with him one last time, to whisper to him the secret knowledge that would, without doubt, shake his world to the core. But she dared not, not while anyone might overhear, and question, and doubt. She tried to impart wisdom to his eyes, silently begging for him to see the truth in the clear, undisturbed waters of her own. He looked beyond her, standing as stoically as the stone carvings at the mouth of the ancient temple.

So she swallowed her insights, turning instead to the looking glass. She had prepared him, but she had now to prepare herself. It was her job to adorn herself in the colors of autumn, to place the red cloak over her gown, and the golden circlet at her brow. No matter the burden she felt, knowing what no one must ever know, what _he _was to soon find out, no matter how the guilt clawed at her chest, pressing a thick, choking lump against her throat… she had a duty to perform.

And it was indeed an honor.

* * *

The highest of honors.

That's what they called it, anyway, when they informed him of the village's decision. That choice had been made without his knowledge, without his _input_, and yet—what did it matter now? What's done was done, and there was no undoing it.

He had not been in Labyrinthia on the day of the impromptu assembly. He had been called away on business for a fellow gentleman, the sort that could not be delayed. An oversight that no one could have foreseen… or perhaps it was not coincidence after all. A cynical part of him wondered who, exactly, could be to blame: God? The universe? The townsman himself?

A hard day's ride had made little difference; he was still too late to make the assembly. He had not heard his name spoken to a dumbstruck crowd. For that, he can only feel relief. There's no telling what he might have been led to do otherwise. He liked to think himself a levelheaded man, but there was no denying the temper he possessed; it sparked quicker than flint, and burned with the blazing passion of hellfire.

The news reached him before he could make it to the town square; before he could properly process his fate, the visitors began. As a knight, a gentleman of some standing, he had been forced to endure the gentry's mocking sympathy. Their acclimation was poorly disguised relief; they congratulated themselves on their own situations while seeking favor. He was a tool, useful only in the fact that their homage would somehow equal good standing in the community.

The thought choked him, stoking a blazing fury in his gut. It made him want nothing more than to lash out, to take up his blade and carve a path through their simpering faces until he was alone again. But that was the behavior of a common madman, not a man who had been raised with standards. He had been orphaned at a young age, but rather than released to the poorhouse he'd been granted a noble upbringing, studying beneath the patient hand of a retired general. He was prepared to face their false manners with acknowledgement, if not gratitude.

Once the procession of nobility grew unbearable, he escaped to the only place he truly felt safe—the tavern. Located on the outskirts of Labyrinthia, it was seedy enough that most travelers would rather pay the extra coin for a night in the inn at the village center. Most considered the tavern to be a den of thieves, home of pickpockets and highwaymen. But he knew that he could find his own kind there: oddities, outcasts, and those who simply had nowhere else to go.

The tavern patrons were the ones who mourned him honestly, without embellishment. He wanted to drown himself in ale, to drink and drink until there was nothing left. However, only a few tries proved that temporary relief was worse than no relief at all. It only left him with a headache to accompany the pain of his grief.

Even so, he allowed them to press another cupful into his hand, to call for plate after plate of food he had no stomach for. It allowed them to feel useful, to offer _something _when there was nothing else they could do. It pacified them in the moment, and would be their comfort after he was gone. And that he couldn't—would never—deny them… his truest friends.

Rouge, the tavernkeeper, was the one to tell him of the village leader's resolve. Of how Labyrinthia had quivered beneath such a decree, and yet accepted it without protest. No one dared to deny the Great Witch her tithe; certainly they weren't about to volunteer themselves in his place. Someone would have to pay the ultimate price. What was the point of making a fuss, so long as it wasn't them?

The leader, they murmured to him over and over. The leader's choice. But he knew—knows—that it's their choice as well. The entire village, even the ones who clap their hands to his shoulders and sorrowfully shake their heads. No matter how much they exercise their jaws now, no one spoke up for him when the tithe offering was announced. Their words are empty.

He was a good choice, a respectable choice—or so they claimed. Had he not been given a childhood others would dream of? Had he not studied with the London masters? He had been trained for a life of war, destined to die on the bloody battlefield. Who wouldn't trade that for the chance to go serenely, to meet Death with outstretched arms? He would have honor, the eternal gratitude of his people. That mantle, they said, would shine far brighter than mere armor.

He could hear the truth, loud and clear as a bell, behind their false kindness. _You are alone, sir knight. No one will weep for you once you're gone. You can give us your life, and that is exactly what we expect. No more, no less._

What did he care?! He thought little of their thanks, and even less of their honor. Who were they, to tell him what was and was not honorable? They, who had reduced him to less than that of an animal! He was a _harvest_, an equivalent to the lackluster crop they were too ashamed to offer the Great Witch and her brood. They were the ones who had stooped low, pleasing monsters with the innocent blood of men.

He scorned such an honor.

Even worse, taking his honor had not been enough; he'd been robbed of his pride as well. They'd come for him at dawn, a team of men storming the tavern so loudly that a few of the more drunken patrons had panicked, believing that a raid was finally upon them. They'd stripped him of his weapon, yanking the scabbard from his hands with only the barest of formalities. It was clear they'd planned for a fight. Sickening, to know that they expected him to sink so low! He'd never give into his fear, even if it gripped at his heart like a vice.

But then they'd taken his armor.

He had paid for that armor, piece by piece, with his own wages. He'd cared for it one might a child, polished it lovingly every evening before retiring to his bed. He had paid extra for the upkeep, always making sure dents were promptly cared for. It return it fit him like a second skin, protected him from both the elements and enemies, and now—now it lay, forlorn, in pieces all around the room. They were treating his precious armor like common rubbish. He had to choke back the curses on his tongue, clenching his teeth so hard that his jaw ached with the effort.

"Keep my blade, if nothing else." It was fitting, somehow, that his last words be directed to Rouge; standing sentry by the bar, she'd stared the men down with narrowed eyes but had not lifted a single finger to intervene. She nodded, understanding what he couldn't bring himself to say in front of his assailants, the unspoken words that were smothering his conscience.

A split second was all he had to commit his last sight of the tavern to memory. Rouge by the bar, her arms crossed. His friends, blinking the sleep from their bleary eyes but intent on watching him to the end. The smoking wax puddles in the chandelier. The banked ashes in the hearth. His armor, glinting in the dusty morning light. _What emotion is this, that I leave as I go?_

_Regret. _

The village streets were deserted as they marched him to the temple, clad only in his hose and tunic. Then they'd stripped him of even that, doused him with boiling water and scouring every inch of skin until it was raw, but clean. Once dried, they'd given him a chemise and left him in a bare, locked room to await the high priestess and her handmaidens.

The high priestess was a little girl—no, to say such was blasphemy. She was a _young lady_, the daughter of the village leader, and done nothing to deserve his disrespect. It was not her fault that her father had chosen him; in fact, she alone had worked hard to ease his emotional turmoil. She was new to the role, having buried her own mother last season, and had seemed nervous when she communed with him following the leader's announcement. His first thought, upon seeing her in her sanctum, was that she looked like a child. Her watery blue eyes were large in her wan face, flanked on either side by corn straw plaits.

Whatever her own thoughts about her father were, they'd not been enough to change his fate. Her soft voice, grave in its sincerity, had touched only on the magnitude of what was to come. He'd actually found himself feeling sorry for her, aware that her own duty was enough of a burden without the added weight of his death.

What's more, she had treated him with nothing but detached politeness. For some, the cold civility might have added insult to injury, but he welcomed it; it was far better to know one's place than to pretend. His lone task was an easy one—he must let her work in peace. Meanwhile, hers… hers was to prepare him for the grave.

The tailors had measured him, the day after the assembly. He would not be allowed to represent Labyrinthia in commonplace threads. He'd wanted to wear his armor, to face his final battle with his status intact. He knew that it would offer no protection against true magic, but that didn't matter. He was a knight: his armor was his soul.

That right had been denied him; he must wear what they saw fit. He supposed there was some archaic tradition to it, some forgotten tradition that dictates what a proper sacrifice must wear. The tithe and Mabon were so intertwined that some referred to them interchangeably. It was a sacred ceremony, one of the sabbats that helped turn the Wheel.

He was a brave man. He might inwardly grieve, but he would never weep for his own life. And yet…. He saw the new clothes first: bulky, folded shapes in the arms of her handmaidens. They had been fragments in his mind, ghosts of a passing thought, and now there were here. Solid. He could touch them. And he had no choice but to face them, clad only in a thin chemise.

There was a warm fire heating the room, crackling merrily in the grate; still he shivered, only once. He wanted his armor, he _needed _it—a barrier between his body and the clothes, and all it represented. He wanted it to be over. He wanted to stop thinking. He wanted to scream. He wanted… he wanted… he wanted to live. But his life was his armor, and he'd let them rip it piece by piece from his body without a fuss.

The high priestess pressed something warm into his hand; new hose, warm and solid. Nodding, she turned modestly to ready the other garments, simultaneously ensuring that her virgin handmaidens didn't catch a swift peek while their backs were supposedly turned. He was oddly grateful for this small concession, for the simply joy that was privacy on his Last Day.

He was also thankful that she had given him a task, something to do with his hands, even if it was nothing more than putting on clothing. It occupied his mind and kept him firmly in the present. If he could stay here, focusing on one thing at a time, then there would be no room for thoughts of the future to creep in and take root. He had been strong for a fortnight; he would not lose face now.

The high priestess returned, ready to continue. He took a deep breath, resolving to exist solely in the moment. They would dress him, and he would allow himself to appreciate each article for what it was—not what it would soon become. If he was not allowed the comfort of his armor, he would craft his own out of these final tributes, aided by sheer willpower.

The doublet was soft and warm, loosely padded to a natural fit over his torso. He let them assist in the lacing, admiring the stark contrast between the skin of his hands and the richly dyed wool. Patted and laced, they covered it with a jerkin the same shade of summer leaves. He couldn't help but admire its emerald sheen… only because he was truly awestruck by the solid gold embroidery on the front panels. Such expensive needlework had, quite likely, cost more than his entire suit of armor. He wouldn't have been able to afford it, at least not at his current status.

They had dressed him as they might a lord, a gentleman of the highest standing. Even his guardian, the old general, hadn't such finery during his life. There were even new boots of stout leather, laced with dark strings. They placed a cloak on his shoulders that fell well past his calves, its hem decorated with the same elaborate golden design as the jerkin. Both the cuffs of the boots and the collar of the cloak were lined with fox fur, its ruddy orange reminiscent of his own hair.

This was enough—it was _more _than enough. He felt as rich as a king in these clothes. But the high priestess wasn't through; she returned again, this time both arms laden with jewels. He bristled at the thought of wearing them, but it was easier to recognize the traditional significance. Even children knew of the power that stones carried. He couldn't name all of them, but he could only assume their power was magnified while the balance between light and dark was at its peak.

Sapphires he recognized; he'd seen them before, in London. The bracelets she looped over both his wrists sparkled in the firelight. They were heavy, but nothing compared to the weight of his gauntlets. The brooch, however, entranced him immediately. He felt the urge to take it from her, to turn it over in his hands and study it. At first glance it seemed as though she had taken a portion of the night sky, buffed down to a jewel's shape, and affixed it within a corded braid of gold.

Next was a wreath of autumn leaves, yellow and orange and red. They were bright against the tightly woven brown boughs, just large enough to rest easily on a man's head. Taking pity on her small size, he bent so that she could place it on his brow; it rested above his ears, snug but not tight. Over the leaves she draped large yellow beads that clinked with every movement, the lowest strand barely visible in his peripherals.

He had watched the sun rise before the high priestess's arrival, and now it was well on to midmorning. The ceremony would officially start when the sun was directly overhead, but nothing could stop the village from celebrating early. He knew they would be in the town square with lutes and pipes, dancing all the old reels as they watched the sun climb. He could hear the pounding of drums already… or perhaps it was his own thundering heartbeat.

He closed his eyes and saw their shapes in his mind, whirling round and round as they praised the gods for what little had been gleaned this season from the merciless earth. They depended on the seasonal rains, and without them the crops had failed. Between the blackbirds and the mice, it was a miracle that they had anything to fill their mouths at all. There was nothing to celebrate, but they _would _dance. They would act as though the ceremonial cart flowed over, when anyone could look at it and see its emptiness.

_No._

_Not empty._

It hit him, all at once, just what they were celebrating. The realization left a pungent, bitter taste on the back of his tongue. His stomach rejected the flavor, churning so violently that he nearly bent at the waist, fearing he would be ill. He fought the wave of nausea, steadying his elbow discreetly against the temple wall; he was kept upright only by the fierce strength of an iron will. He was to be their oblation, the means to guarantee Labyrinthia's safety for one more year. How could he alone appease witches, dark creatures of shadow who would be expecting not him, but a plentiful harvest bounty?

Surely—the wicked, heathen part of him spoke now—surely the Great Witch herself had noticed the lack of rainfall. Had the realm of witches been immune to the days of endlessly croaking birds? Had their cottage eaves not rung with the screams of housewives as they found yet another mouse face down in the day's cream? What sort of heartless bitch would demand food from those who had nothing to give? And worse: how could they expect him to throw himself upon her mercy? In all the fairytales he'd ever heard, witches were hardly known for their pity.

His heart scorned the idea that he must meet his destiny head on, unarmed, and entirely at the mercy of the shadow figures that had plagued his nightmares for nearly a fortnight now. He had never before felt such a strong array of emotion; like the ebb and flow of a tide, swallowing the sand as lapped at the shore, each one possessed him body and soul.

In one moment he had made his peace with death. He was calm, collected, even determined that he should shed his life so that the village, their children, might live one more winter. And yet in the next he railed against such a selfless thought, ripping at the skin of his arms with blunt, work-worn nails as he bit back the ragged howl of a soul that clung to life. And yet still he was plagued with melancholy, a dark, endless void that threatened to consume him whole.

He had lived a fuller life than some. The illness that had taken his family left him whole, and he'd been given excellent opportunities by his lordly benefactor. He had trained with the Order and gained their respect, he had been to London, had traveled farther than many others in Labyrinthia would ever hope to go. He had indeed lived a full life, and yet between blinks it was not enough, never enough for this; he wished, yearned for the cowardice he didn't possess, knowing that he would bravely face the Mabon-tide and hating himself for it.

And now it was here, and his life was measured in hours, not days or years. Outwardly he was resigned, he had to be, for there was no alternative. He was desperate to preserve his dignity before the town. They would not see him dragged to the proverbial chopping block, wailing like a child. And he would certainly not demean himself or his family name by fighting back. Labyrinthia would see their tithe as they wanted to see him: a role model and martyr, a man who was willing to give everything and more for the good of his people.

He looked out of the temple at the dancing bodies, the whirling gaiety that was somehow solemn at the same time. These were the people who had grieved with him when he, a young boy barely taller than the shovel, had thrown the first spades of dirt on his parent's graves. They had toasted him when he joined the Order properly, when he was knighted before a crowd and given the honorable title of Sir. They had bid him a hearty farewell on his way to London, and a heartier welcome on his return. And now they were saying good-bye one last time, and happily cheering him on the way to his grave.

They had always treated him with respect, but it had been tenfold this fortnight past. He had never known such a level of high regard, the kind normally reserved for kings and court. An honor, they repeated as they pressed endless ale into his hand, filled his stomach with the best they could offer without asking for payment. They toasted again and again to his name, even as the carpenter hammered together the cart that would ferry him to his death. An honor, they crowed as they measured him for his graveclothes. An honor, the high priestess murmured as she communed with him, preparing him as best she could for the journey only he could make.

And what could he do but smile, when what he wanted was to scream? He had felt—could feel—his soul withering beneath the unbearable burden that was his fate. He could only parrot their empty words back in the same tone, as thoughtless and demure as the local bard's trained pet bird.

Yes, yes…. It is the highest of honors.


	2. Witchlight

He'd never paid the ceremony any notice before. Not that it was unimportant; he meant no disrespect by his inattention. But it was… well, in a word, it was _boring. _The ceremony never changed, year after year. It was long-winded and filled with rituals that meant nothing to him, nor anyone else in the village outside of the high priestess. It didn't even pertain to the witches; it was more a blessing of the Mabon tithe itself, a way to honor the changing seasons.

The ceremony was older than he was, older than even the most revered village elders. All the Eldwitch settlements had their own version; it had been performed every year, without fail, since the dawn of civilization—or so it seemed. Everyone that attended did so only from tradition, having been born and raised attending thanks to their parents, who'd done the same thanks to _theirs_.

No one cared much about the particulars, just so long as it was over and done with before sundown. After all, it was a long trek back to their homes, where a warm hearth and hearty meal awaited. It was hard enough for the adults, standing still and at attention for over an hour while observing the ancient rites. For the children it was torture, and there was an expected measure of leniency granted to them as they openly toed at fallen leaves, whispering to one another in increasingly louder tones before being shushed back into sullen silence. The teens and elders tried to set a good example, but even their attention flagged by the final procession.

Not this time, though. As always, the Labyrinthians had made the solemn procession through the forest, following a timeworn path that led to the sacred Mabon-tide clearing. The ceremonial cart fit easily into the wheel grooves worn into each side of the path. It was built with the same dimensions as carts in years past, with a new one each year; crafting one was both an honor and an art form, reserved only for the master cartwright.

The handcart, bedecked with ivy and garlands of autumn flowers, was placed at the center of the clearing. The glade was large enough that the village were able to stand around the cart, in a circle that was at times three bodies thick. The outermost ring held the torches that would be necessary to light the path on their way home, the flames crackling as they reached to the darkening sky. Children clung to their parents hands, younger ones perched on their parents' shoulders to better see the proceedings.

He stood in the center of the cart, a full head and shoulders above everyone else. Every eye was on him, as though they expected to see the Great Witch herself swoop down and carry him off before the ceremony's end. He was not the sort of man who quailed at being the center of attention; their faces blurred in his vision, but it was not due to any embarrassment. His legs ached fiercely, having been locked in place against the path's gentle slopes, and his entire body was tense from constant vigilance. He expected his nerves to fail him at a moment's notice, and had resolved to be ready and quell any panic before it could show in his expression.

He ignored the villagers, his eyes glued instead to the leafy bushes that lined the inner clearing. He could not allow himself to be lulled into security, not when the world seemed to be watching. If he let the flickering torchlight hypnotize him, his mind would drift, and then there was no telling what might happen. He forced himself to remain grounded in the moment, counting the cardinal-red hood each time it passed through his peripherals.

The high priestess circled the cart in multiples of three, her associates following suit until they were gathered beneath him, a sea of fuzzy white at the bottom of his vision. She spoke in a clear voice, piercing the snap of rushes and distant birdsong with each syllable. With each statement, the Labyrinthians' traditional response—spoken in the most solemn enthusiasm imaginable—rang in his ears. He tried to tune them out, to focus only on the counting and nothing more, but it was impossible.

_One, two, three._

"The year-wheel turns, the bounty comes."

"_Blessed be_!"

_One. _There was a blackbird squawking nearby. He stifled a shudder; he'd heard more than enough of those to last him a lifetime. _Two. _He thought he saw Rouge, hovering near his left cheekbone at the front of the crowd. However, he couldn't allow himself to look at her directly, to move his gaze from the tree line. If he did that, he would lose whatever emotion was keeping his feet stuck to the cart. _Three._

"Fruits ripen, seeds drop; the hours of night and day are balanced."

"_Blessed be_!"

_One. _He needed a plan. He'd had a fortnight to prepare; why had he not thought up a plan? There had to be some way to…. _Two. _Two? To? To what? Run? Where could he run? He'd been branded as an offering; did that mean the witches knew that he belonged to them now? Where could he go in the world, that magic would be unable to follow? _Three. _Too late, it was too late.

"Always has life fulfilled this cycle: life to life anew, in the eternal chain of the living."

"_Blessed be_!"

Silence. He wavered on the spot, his body flushing both hot and cold. The words had always, always been meant for food, for the grains and gourds piled high upon the cart. But now, with his life at the center, they seemed ominous. The high priestess was still before him, and made a small movement that caught his attention; he glanced down out of habit, always observant, and immediately berated himself. _You looked away, you moved, now it's over—_

Their eyes met and he froze, helpless under the powerful energy radiating from her thin form. It was said that the high priestess held the secrets of the earth and sky; she could heal disease, bring forth children when the midwife could not, and even commune with the dead. He'd never believed these claims, having not seen them in action; his education had instilled in him a healthy respect for the progressive world. So many ancient theories had been discredited, even disproved entirely.

But seeing her now, the gravity written into the tired lines of her pale face… he had no trouble believing that this girl could bend anything, even the weather, to her will. With her blond plaits undone, hair straggling around her cheekbones, and eyes glowing in the torchlight, she seemed as much a witch as anything else he might come across in this wood. She breathed in once, arms rising so that the scarlet cloak fell from her elbows, and then whirled to address her audience.

"The Wheel turns, and seasons pass." Her back was turned to him, yet he couldn't help but feel that she spoke to him directly. The crowd didn't seem to matter; her words were for him, and him alone. "Each year must give way to the next. Guide us, most Wise Ones, lest we forget the sacred truth—each beginning has an end, and every end is a new beginning."

He heard the ghost of her late mother in each word, thrumming steady as a pulse to a rhythm that only she could hear. It was a song, rising and falling alone without the instruments to accompany it. It gave him hope; if a mother's spirit could return to aid her daughter in her hour of need, could not the same be done for him? _Mother, will you come for me as well? Your child is before the gallows._

"To the good seasons that have gone, and the good ones yet to come." The Labryinthians joined her, their voices rising to fill the clearing. A tremor rippled through the ring of onlookers, the first stirrings of unease he'd seen from them all afternoon. It infected him as well, icy breath sliding through his veins and settling in a rock hard ball in the pit of his stomach. The high priestess alone seemed unaffected by the shift in mood. She glanced left, right, and then took one more deep breath.

The world seemed to stop, waiting to hear what she would say. The villagers, who had heard the same words spoken every year since their birth, held their breath as they waited. He could hear nothing over the curious rushing in his ears: the birdsong died to silence, the orchestral crickets ceasing their song. He couldn't even hear the crackling flames dancing on the ends of the torches. Swallowing, he realized the rushing was something only he could hear—it was the sound of his blood in his ears.

"For spring is impossible without the second harvest," the high priestess said, as calmly as though commenting on the weather. "As surely as life as impossible without death." The final word slammed like a book; it held the sound of a blade striking metal, ringing long after her mouth had closed. No one moved, though the ceremony was finished. Their faces held identical expressions of puzzled expectancy, lingering as they waited for something else to happen.

The village leader was the first to unstick himself from the crowd, giving his head a little shake as if waking from a doze. He stared a long moment at the cart, looking more at the wheels and wood than what stood within. His unwavering blue eyes blinked once and, with an unidentifiable emotion twisting his thick mustache, turned to the path. The elongated shadows wrapped around his stooped form, engulfing him in the gloom.

A man followed next, long strides separating him quickly from the crowd. Then another and his wife, their toddler fast asleep against his shoulder. Slowly the Labyrinthians broke away from the ring, some singular and others in small groups, clutching at each other's sleeves and coattails to keep from being separated by the encroaching darkness. A few glanced over their shoulders before attempting the first hill, committing this last sight to their memories before called by those who had gone ahead. Others hurried with their shoulders hunched, fleeing as if being pursued by their sin. They abandoned their tithe to his fate, footsteps crunching through the crispy fallen leaves.

The high priestess waited a moment more, watching the torchlight as it bobbed through the trees. The hood fell from her upturned face and she let out a weary sigh of relief, one he wished he could mirror. Their eyes met once more and her mouth fell open, shoulders rising; her eyes fairly burned with something he'd seen before, back at the temple. He waited, silent, but to no avail. Closing her jaw, she instead offered a low, sweeping bow of respect before following her people. The cloak billowed behind her, hiding the light of her own torch.

He was alone.

_What am I to do now? _The question was almost laughable. He hadn't thought about being made to wait. Looking around, he saw only the empty clearing. With nothing to distract him, the ache in his calves made itself known angrily; he sat down on the edge of the cart, his feet dangling just above the knee-length grass. There was a trampled circle around the cart where the Labyrinthians had stood, but the rest of it swayed gently in a soft breeze. The last rays of sunlight cut golden ribbons through the leaves, shadows dancing on the underbrush.

He let out a soft breath, listening as the world around him came back to life. He could hear the slow, measured footsteps of a deer just out of sight past the tree line, pausing every so often as it too listened for danger. A nut—an acorn, perhaps—fell to the leafy ground with a muted rustle. He strained his ears, trying to hear any last sounds from the procession; he could not. He was truly alone now, an outsider in the Eldwitch Wood.

The glade was growing dim, but he was not afraid of the darkness… only of what lurked within. He knew that _something _would come for him, but if there were only some way of knowing when it would arrive! It was tradition for the village children to run to the clearing the morning after the tithe, searching high and low for signs of magic. As a child, he had delighted with the rest in seeing the missing cart; there were never any wheel tracks, so it was impossible for the cart to have been moved elsewhere. There had never been a single grain left behind, nor one garland. Unfortunately, they'd also never found a stray witch.

Tomorrow, the children would come and see the cart gone, and him along with it. But what, or who, would ferry him off in the night? And, even more pressing, how would it be done? Was the cart simply magicked away? Would they come on their broomsticks and fly the cart to their realm? Or perhaps the clearing sat atop a _rath_, and at midnight the ground would open up and swallow him. What if they ate by some supernatural means, and destroyed the cart in the process?

He had no answers… and he was quickly growing bored of swinging his feet like an idle schoolboy. There really was no way of knowing when the witches might come. He wasn't worried about the chill of the coming night; the fur lined boots kept his feet warm, and he could wrap himself in the cloak if his arms grew cold. But the first stirrings of hunger were beginning to gnaw around the nervous bullet in his gut. He hadn't eaten properly since the assembly, and it had long started to wear on his figure.

Reclining on his elbows, he watched the sky fade from blue to slate, and then to the soft orangey pink of true dusk. The first stars twinkled down at him from behind wispy horsetails. An owl hooted to its mate, and then a moment later took to the sky and headed east. A sudden wind stirred the tops of the trees, and a squirrel chattered its annoyance before leaping into the bushes.

He relaxed, head sinking into the opening of his cloak. His mind had been a whirlwind for days, but now his thoughts were complacent and he was grateful for the rest it provided. While not at peace with dying, he had come to peace with the _thought_ of death. He knew he would face it come hell or high water, and he could hope—did hope—that it would be relatively painless. But that didn't matter, at least right now; he was so at ease with the world that he caught his eyes closing, elbows sliding against the smoothly sanded boards.

_Dozing, Zacharias? _It was amusing to consider that he might very well wake up on the morrow still here, drenched in fallen dew and shivering beneath his cloak. What if they rejected him as tithe? _Could _they? He supposed the Great Witch could do whatever she pleased, but what would that mean for Labyrinthia? He mused over the thought, chewing on a piece of grass to ease the growing pains in his stomach. Lost in his thoughts, he almost missed the first shuffling footsteps that alerted him to another's presence.

Almost.

He sat up, heart hammering at the base of his throat as he searched the shadows for movement. It was dark enough now that he could barely see past the first boughs; the forest was reduced to fragments of shapes. The hair on his neck rose as he waited, certain that he would finally see a witch. He tried to steady his breathing, hand scratching at his waist for a hilt that wasn't there.

The shadows seemed to bulge, melting into two distinct shapes. Narrowing his eyes, he saw them to be humanesque figures, draped in long robes the same purple-black shade as midnight. One figure was his height, if not a little smaller, and nearly as wide. The other was smaller, slimmer, with a gait that seemed anxious. Their hands were hidden beneath the wide angles of their sleeves, and the hoods fell so far over their faces that he could barely make out the rough semblance of lips, the tip of a nose. The trains were long enough to cover their feet, if they indeed had bodies beneath the bunched cloth.

He didn't like that he couldn't see their eyes. He certainly didn't like being outnumbered, in the dark, by figures that may or may not be witches. He leapt to his feet, standing beside the cart and wishing that he had a blade at his side. Every sense was on high alert as he waited for the first blow, for the magic that would surely strike at any time.

However, it wasn't until he moved that the figures seemed to notice that _they _weren't alone. It was tradition for the tithe to be abandoned, surrendered without hesitation; they were obviously surprised to find someone waiting for them. They stopped dead in their tracks, a good nine metres from where he stood. He didn't need to see their eyes to know that he was being sized up, that they were making their own judgments on this deviation from the norm.

Then, as he watched, they seemed to communicate with one another. However, he could see no hand gestures, hear no murmured words… not even a facial expression. Yet they were having some sort of conversation; he could feel it passing between them, invisible to the naked eye. _So these are witches? _He wondered at them, swallowing his fear with the assurance that it was not cowardly to wait, to see what they might do first. He was only being cautious in the face of danger.

The taller figure crept closer, sliding rather than walking and moving slowly. They were waiting, he realized, for him to move first. _I will. I am ready to greet Death. I think. _He faced them head-on, glaring in their general direction with a scowl that would make even the boldest enemy think twice. The figure stopped, startled; he couldn't see their eyes, but he knew that they were looking about his waist for a weapon. _If only. _He wished he could at least put his hand on the hilt of his sword; it was often enough to calm him during stressful situations like this.

The smaller figure seemed to bristle, ducking behind their counterpart's elbow. He blinked, the glare melting in the wake of confusion. He was no fool… that was fear. They were afraid of _him_. Did they expect him to attack when he was weaponless? The taller figure faltered, raising their hands to show that they, too, were unarmed. The sleeves fell back to reveal the well-worked hands of a male, fingers thickened with callouses. His heart stuttered in his chest. Something was wrong.

Witches could not be males; they were females, always. At least, that was what the fairytales claimed. Were there men in the realm of witches? Men who could also do magic? Who were these people? He glanced at the slimmer figure, trembling visibly behind the makeshift elbow. Was this a male as well? He couldn't discern what lay beneath the hood. Perhaps it was a witch after all, and this taller male was her retainer.

He had no further time to ponder this turn of events. The taller figure cleared his throat was a gruff rumble, squaring his shoulders before motioning with a half-point to the empty cart. The ivy garlands were drab and wilted in the moonlight, and there was a scuff mark where his boot had scratched the boards earlier in the evening. The taller figure spoke, his voice clearly English, but flavored with an odd dialect that Barnham had never heard before.

"The tithe. Where is it?" _Of course. _It made sense that they were baffled. They were, naturally, expecting a cart of food. It was up to him to explain the nature of things.

"'Tis I you're seeking." He punctuated this with a genial bow, mostly from habit. Would etiquette give him any sway over these creatures? Did witches prefer their victims polite? His news was met with a beat of silence, the figures eyeing each other before turning back to him.

"You?" The slimmer one inched back into view, scrutinizing him from beneath the hood. They also spoke in a man's voice, to his astonishment. He had always thought the witches would be the ones to come and take the tithe back to their queen. Was this not so? "What do you mean? Where is the grain?" it urged, prompting him to explain.

"There was no grain to be had." He felt a flicker of embarrassment in his chest; it felt strange to have to stand here, explaining the circumstances to those who ought to have known already. All the Eldwitch settlements had suffered a twelvemonth, if not more. Did the realm of witches not share in their collective plight? Had it the seasonal rains not seen fit to spare them as well?

"Perhaps I should say there was none to be spared," he corrected himself, not wanting to lie to supernatural creatures. "Between the drought and infestations, there was barely enough to feed ourselves. There was none to be spared for the annual offering."

"But who are _you_?" the taller asked, gesturing to him now. He offered them the knight's salute, one fist slamming against his chest. The bracelets on his wrist clinked against the jeweled brooch.

"I am Sir Zacharias Barnham, a noble knight of the Owl's Order and… and your tithe."

"But why you?" _Why indeed? _He had no better answer then they for that question, but attempted to offer one nevertheless.

"Labyrinthia is an impoverished village with no industry to speak of. The village leader learned that other settlements in the area were able to make up the deficiency through alternate means, but without a good harvest we had precious little to offer. I do not presume to know their thought process, but I can only assume that I'm the best they could do, given the circumstances."

"…You." He nearly winced at the clear dissatisfaction in his tone.

"I know I am not the usual tithe, but I would beg that you do not reject me." He bowed again, wishing he had some way of supplementing the show of obeisance. "I truly am the best that my village can offer; please continue to extend your courtesy towards La—"

"Reject?" The taller figure repeated, the word both frustrated and amused. "That's not for me to decide, is it?"

"Isn't it?"

"Do I look like the Great Witch to you?!" He huffed, square jaw working in impatience. "Our task is not to ask questions; it's to bring the tithe to the city by means of the cart. So get in and we'll be off." He faltered, surprised at the command, and was greeted by a brusque, flustered shout. "Come on, then! I refuse to be late for my breakfast because the tithe is too airheaded to know where he ought to sit!"

Taken aback by this utter change of pace, he obediently crawled into the cart. He wondered if he ought to stand, but with no further instruction he sat in the center to help distribute his weight evenly. He burrowed down against his knees, tucking the cloak around him; thus protected from the night air, he felt comfortable enough to talk.

"You're a rather masculine witch."

"Wh—!?" What he could see of the square jaw flushed with anger. The slimmer figure snickered, one hand over his mouth. "Oh—_tch_! Unless you know of what you speak, I'd rather you hold your tongue!" He took his place at the forefront of the cart; he chose the left handle, his slimmer counterpart taking the right. "If you're the sort who takes advice," he added, keeping his back steadily to the cart, "if I were you, I'd save my breath for Her."

"Her?"

"Her," the slimmer one confirmed, twisting to look over his shoulder. "Our venerable mistress. She'll certainly want to see _you_." Perhaps it wasn't meant to be as threatening as it sounded. Still, that didn't stop a cold finger from slipping down his spine, twisting his stomach into knots. "I suggest you get comfortable," he said. "'Tis a long ride back… for you, at least. You're welcome to sleep; we won't disturb you." There was a hint of laughter in his tone. "You look as though you might need it, friend."

_I refuse to sleep with these two within throat-cutting range. _He didn't reply, staring steadily into what he hoped was the figure's eyes—or roughly where he thought they would be. The slim figure smiled, turning back to face front and lifting his handle with a grunt. They yanked the cart simultaneously, overcompensating and nearly stumbling into the underbrush before righting themselves. He smothered a laugh into his fist, knowing better than to rouse ire. _They must be used to heavier loads. One man's weight on an empty cart is indeed a sad exchange._

Curious, he looked behind him as the cart trundled from the clearing. He felt his jaw drop; he could see the grass passing beneath the wheels, but rather than stay trampled it sprang back into place easily. It was as if the cart suddenly weighed nothing at all. It was no wonder that the children never saw proof of the cart leaving; he could barely believe what was happening before his very eyes! _What sort of magic—_?

He watched, entranced, until the clearing made way for thick, close-set trees. It wrapped the three of them in an oppressive silence, very different from the soft nighttime sounds of the glade. He'd never known that the absence of sound could be so _loud_. Then again, he'd never ventured to the deep woods before, either; he'd never known anyone foolish enough to try. Everyone knew to stick to the paths when traveling the Eldwitch Wood. To deviate it from it was just asking to be….

_Then again, it would be hard for witches to steal me away right now. I've been offered to them on a silver platter, haven't I?_

He thought that the two men might return to their silent conversation. However, they didn't seem interested in speaking. They were focusing on their work, and he was content to remain quiet and watch them as they led the cart deeper into the woods. There was no clear road, so far as he could tell, but they never stopped to reroute. The wheels didn't catch a single root; there weren't even any overgrown branches to slap at their faces. It was as if the trees stood aside to let them pass, carving their own path as they walked yet leaving no trace of it behind.

There was no way to tell how much time had passed. The moon was hidden above the thick forest canopy; the pale light that managed to filter through the trees wasn't enough to tell him anything. Time seemed to stretch thin as a cord, and then compress back into something he could almost touch. The clearing still felt as though it were within easy walking distance, but at the same time he could have sworn that they'd been moving for hours without pause.

The slim figure glanced back every so often, taking his measure. It was as though he were making sure that their cargo was still there. He never spoke, turning away quickly when he found himself being watched by wary, shrewd eyes. The silence was broken instead by the taller figure, stopping out of nowhere and bringing the entire company to a weary halt.

"I'll be back," he mumbled, letting the handle free and storming off into the shrubbery. "Bring out your lantern!" he called, the sound muffled by the crunching leaves. Barnham tensed, waiting to see what might happen next. He found that he was capable of staying calm only as long as there was no marked change. He was thankful enough to relax again, hearing the telltale signs of the man relieving himself out of sight. So that's what the matter was.

The slim figure lifted his robe, bunching it beneath his arms to reveal a scrawny frame clad in breeches and a simple doublet. A small bronze lantern hung from his belt, along with a money pouch and a very fine dagger. He found his eyes locked on the weapon, unable to look away until it was hidden again beneath the robe. _So there is a weapon. _The blood froze in his veins; he had no intention of fighting back, not when the village depended on him. But it was strangely calming to know all the same that there was a blade nearby, and unless he was incapacitated in some way it would be fairly easy to wrestle it from such a thin man.

The taller man emerged from the brush, an identical lantern swinging from his hand. Barnham watched, intrigued, as they hung the lanterns from the ends of the cart. With a jolt, he realized that they fit almost perfectly into the carved grooves running down the length of the handles. He'd always thought—well, everyone thought—that the grooves were purely decorative, but now he could see that they must have been intended for the lantern handles. _Even if they don't know why, the cartwrights have been making them the same way for centuries… fascinating._

"Fulgeo!" A sudden, blinding flash had him toppling backwards onto his hands, blinking stars from his dazzled eyes. There had been no matches, no spark of flint; the lanterns had blazed to life with a _word_, a single incantation. Looking closer, he was shocked to see that the flames were not natural. He had always known fire—hearths, candles, campfires—but never had the flames been anything other than orange, or red. This was a white flame—no, not even a flame! A ball of white, floating freely in the enclosed space.

"Witchlight." He jumped, having forgotten that he wasn't alone. The taller one watched him, a frown tugging at the edges of his wide mouth. Seeing that he was noticed, he nodded to the lantern at his fingers. "Witchlight," he repeated. "It's true that we may not be witches, but as Her Shades we have access to certain magics."

"Witchlight burns far longer than a regular candle," the slim figure added brightly. "And, even better, there's no need for fuel. It will fade on its own when the spell is released from the lantern." He paused, biting his lip. "You really should try to rest, sir knight. You're looking rather ill." _How am I supposed to look? _He'd just seen true magic being performed before his very eyes! It wasn't for lack of sleep that he was pale!

"I am not tired." He steadied himself, now prepared to stay awake at all costs. Why did they keep insisting that he let his guard down? There had to be some nefarious plan at hand, one that required him being in a vulnerable state. No, he would remain awake; he was a knight of the Order, after all. It would be shameful to die in such a manner.

The two figures shared a look; he couldn't see it, of course, but he felt their brows arching beneath the hoods. He expected a fight, for them to insist that he lay down and rest. He wanted to be stubborn, even if it was spiteful. It was almost a disappointment when they turned to the handles without a word, steadying the lanterns before moving along.

Just as the silence became oppressive, the tall figure began to sing. Barnham recognized it as an ancient ballad from the coastal lands; it was a love song, the plea of a maiden begging a fierce storm to spare her beloved's ship from a watery grave. While not exactly tuneful, his voice was a strong baritone that carried a portion of the rolling thunder in its deepest notes. The slim figure joined in at the chorus, an airy tenor that rocked along with the waves. The lilting wind whispered in the gaps between their voices.

He didn't remember lying down, only that his head hit the cart with a dull _clonk_. Suddenly he was staring up instead of out, with the cloak wrapped about him like a blanket and the stars twinkling merrily through gaps in the dark leaves. The cart was on the ocean now, not the ship—or maybe his head was what swayed in time to the music. There was an odd pressure in his middle, somewhere between his lungs and stomach. It didn't hurt; it rather felt like someone's hand, pressing steadily into the softest part of his belly. It was an awareness—he'd always been able to feel it, even before, but had never known it until now.

Another chorus, softer than the first, washed over him like a wave. _Sleep…. _He wanted so badly to close his eyes; why hadn't he done so already? There was a reason, he knew there was, but it was so hard to _remember _when he couldn't keep a single thought in his head. Everything between his ears felt buoyant, woozy with the overwhelming urge to sleep.

He tried to focus on the song, but the words kept unraveling themselves until he was afloat on an ocean of syllables. He couldn't move his arms, but his fingers cast about for something to hang onto, to keep him from sinking, but there was nothing beyond the smooth boards beneath him. From the shore, so very far away, one last rational part of his mind called out to him. He knew now that he was being bewitched. _So this is how it feels_, he thought blearily, trying to commit it to memory.

Then his eyes closed, and he thought of nothing at all.


	3. Problematic

"Master?"

Newton Belduke ignored the summons, unwilling to turn away from the brazier. If his latest experiment fell to the coals now, it would mean far worse than the loss of a week's work. He let out a slow breath between his teeth, hissing softly as the tongs began to sizzle against his gloves. Only when his glowing experiment was safely in a cooling dish did he turn to the staircase in the corner of his laboratory.

"What is it?" He didn't bother hiding the mild irritation in his tone; if there was one thing he absolutely hated, it was being interrupted during work. There was no possible way to concentrate on his experiments when others were constantly barging in, disrupting his train of thought. He was so adamant about his solitude that only two people had the permission needed to enter his laboratory: his daughter and his butler.

It was the latter who stood in the doorway, her small frame illuminated by the corridor's great lanterns. His impatience flared at the sight—he had honestly expected Eve to be the one invading his sanctuary. Jean knew that he was only to be interrupted if there was an emergency; if the castle wasn't burning down around his ears, whatever it was could wait until he was ready to come upstairs.

"Yes?" he prompted, gingerly resting the tongs on the edge of the brazier before pulling off his singed gloves. There must have been some heat left in his voice, as the child seemed to catch herself and offer a low, apologetic bow before hurrying down the stairs. She hovered anxiously on the bottom step, respecting the final barrier between herself and the one room in the castle that belonged—had always belonged—to him alone.

She looked bedraggled at best; her long hair was unbound and fell across both shoulders, and the blouse was untucked from her breeches. He could see that her hands were smudged with something that looked like dampened soil. Concern knitted the brow half-hidden beneath her straight-cut bangs. She bowed again as he watched, more hair sliding over her shoulders to cage her pale features.

"Forgive me, Master Belduke. But I was told to fetch you immediately." She trailed off, biting her lip. "There is a… problem." There was no reason to explain what she was referring to. Only one thing was on everyone's minds at the moment—the tithe.

He took a deep breath, resisting the urge to let it taper into a sigh. For the past three years he'd allowed Jean to accompany him while supervising the tithe. He'd been hoping to finally relinquish himself of the tiresome duty, once she was comfortable enough to watch over things on her own. Theoretically, letting her handle the bulk of things would let him focus more on his work; it only made sense that her first year alone would also be the first time in decades that a hitch interrupted the otherwise smooth process.

"What seems to be the problem?" Hopefully the discrepancy was something easily explained; if he could advise them on what to do in the interim, it would leave him free to correct the mistake at his leisure. Ms. Ridelle would be frustrated, of course, but the archivists were always upset over something, and the account books were constantly in need of corrections anyway. One more figure couldn't hurt.

"I… I can't say." She squirmed beneath his sharp glare, her own eyes downcast in thinly veiled shame. "You see, sir, I didn't actually—that is to say, I never saw the—" She paused, clearing her throat, and he felt his own expression soften at seeing her so affected. It was clear that she was embarrassed, perhaps considering her plea for help a failing on her part.

"Mrs. Eclaire was called to the buttery, so she asked me to stay in the kitchens and help direct the sorting." He nodded, encouraging her to continue. "She was gone only a few moments, but upon returning she told me that I was to go and fetch you straight away. I did tryto explain that you weren't to be disturbed, but she _insisted_ that I find you at once and bid you come."

"Mrs. Eclaire?" He frowned, dismissing the witchlight hovering above them with a flick of his fingers. The brazier glowed in the darkness, casting looming shadows that climbed the stone walls. Jean's expression deepened in the gloom, cutting hard lines into her thin face. She was a bright, studious child, gifted with an excellent mind that wasn't prone to flights of fancy. Be that as it may, she was inexperienced enough that it was too easy to doubt the severity of her worries.

For the castle baker to be worried was another matter entirely. Mrs. Eclaire had been in charge of the tithe process for as long as he had lived at the castle. A choleric personality if he'd ever seen one, she was firmly grounded and not the type to be easily flummoxed. If something had alarmed _her_, then it truly was cause for some concern. At the very least, it was enough of a deviation that he felt the scolding he'd planned to give the butler die on his tongue.

"Mrs. Eclaire told you this in person?" he clarified, wanting to be absolutely sure of where he stood before climbing the stairs. "You didn't hear it from another?"

"No, she told me personally. She looked rather shaken." Mrs. Eclaire, shaken? That was enough for him.

"Go now—tell her that I will come, and that the Great Witch will accompany me. Are the Shades that brought the problematic tithe still in the buttery?"

"I think so, sir."

"Make sure that they are nearby; call them back, if you must. I may have questions for them. Allow no one else into the area."

"Yes, Master Belduke. Right away." With that she was gone, her buckled shoes clicking on the checkered tile lining the long corridor. She knew better than to run, but he thought he heard her rise to a jog as she rounded the corner. Shaking his head, he fastened the gauntlet around his wrist before climbing the stairs after her. The laboratory door closed behind him as he entered the corridor, gears whirring as magic weaved itself into the lock.

The corridor was empty, an oddity for that time of morning. All the servants that could be spared were below stairs, helping with the extensive tithe process. Although she was a powerful witch, Mrs. Eclaire needed all the helping hands she could get when it came to the tithe. The castle employed lower level witches, and a few decent sorcerers helped to round out the bunch. But even the human servants incapable of doing the most basic magic could still unload carts and stack vegetables.

His footsteps echoed down the deserted corridor as he hurried, not to the kitchens but to the Great Witch's private chambers. The midmorning sun beamed through arched windows, eddies of glittering motes swirling in his wake as he made his way to the central tower. Above him, witchlight chandeliers creaked slowly in the draft, tinting the stone walls an off-color blue.

What on earth could be wrong? He thought to himself as he walked, adjusting a lace cuff over the gleaming metal of his gauntlet. His first instinct was to assume that the tithe in question was missing—that was improbable at best. He doubted that alone would be enough to startle the unflappable Mrs. Eclaire. She would have told Jean of the absence, who then would have promptly told him, and that would be the end of it.

The end of it… laughable. Even if that were the case—no matter how slight a probability—he certainly wouldn't know what to do about it. In all his years as an advisor, there'd never been a single missed tithe. No matter how small, every Eldwitch settlement had given _something_. It was true that some had more to offer than others, but—how had the previous advisor worded it? Some nonsense about each and their ability, he couldn't remember now.

He didn't care much for the concept of a tithe to begin with. Having been born off Eldwitch lands and introduced to the tradition as an adult, he found the whole matter rather barbaric. Entire villages dressing a common handcart in weeds, stuffing it full of food before leaving it in the middle of the forest for witches. He'd never personally observed the ceremony, but he had studied records of the blessings they placed on the cart's contents. He still remembered the indulgent, almost mocking grin that crossed his lips on his first time reading the pagan notions.

Despite his feelings on the matter, the tithe was an honored ritual. Moreover, it was important in that it was tied intrinsically to the city's wellbeing. Being secluded as they were, the tithe was all anyone had by way of imports. It helped support the limited industry within the city walls, and bolstered community reserves during times of need. As court advisor and the Great Witch's left hand, it was his duty to ensure each year's harvest best furthered the prosperity of Her people.

_Troublesome… troublesome. _He reached the grand staircase, one hand resting lightly on the spiral railing as he climbed towards the royal suites. No, everything was there—that much he was certain of. But there was something else wrong, and he couldn't fathom what it might possibly be. He hated the idea of involving the Great Witch in something as mundanely clockwork as the annual tithe, but if someone as seasoned as Mrs. Eclaire was at a loss, then….

Customarily, the Great Witch was supposed to accept or reject all tithes that passed through the kingdom. In the ancient days, this most likely served them well; in these modern times, it was neither convenient nor practical. Regardless of how it had started, the Great Witch's direct involvement with the tithe was one of the many archaic customs that had fallen out of favor over the years. It was an unspoken rule that they were always accepted. But if a decision needed to be made downstairs, she _must _be the one to make it. There was nothing else he could do.

Newton bypassed his own chambers, heading instead for the carved threshold that marked the entrance to the Great Witch's bedchamber. The guards on either side of the entrance saluted him with reverence, their eyes lowered humbly. As both current advisor and former consort, he was well-admired. After all, a former consort was always the father of the current Great Witch; that alone made him worthy of great respect. He only made way for a new consort when his daughter married, and was treated with the highest honors until his death.

The current Great Witch was not yet married, a fact that, given the circumstances, wasn't surprising in the least. By witch standards, Eve was still very young. A witch was not an adult until one hundred years of age; by three hundred, they'd barely reached middle adulthood.

At two-hundred-ten years, Eve ought to have been still in training for the day she would take up the mantle—not living it. But the same fickle universe that spared his life so many years ago had also seen fit to steal his wife's. There had been no choice but to crown her prematurely; the past fifty years had been a learning experience for both father and daughter.

Eve's ladies-in-waiting bowed him into the main room, voluminous skirts fluttering as they took their leave to a side chamber. He paused in the entryway, glancing over the change in decoration; each Great Witch had her own sense of style, and the rooms were enchanted to follow the whims of their mistress. Despite having his own consort suite, he had shared these rooms with his wife while she lived. Now they were nearly unrecognizable, dark wood and burgundy accented with gold.

Eve sat before a large mirror, her black skirts spilling over the cushion to surround her in a sea of silk. The nymphs carved into the mirror's gilded edge watched with lazy abandon as she painted her lips a soft purple hue. She beamed at his reflection, the expression further softening her elegant features.

"Good morning, Papa." He returned her smile, pushing aside his worries at the sight of his only child so at peace.

"You look lovely this morning, Eve." It was true; he wasn't often greeted with the sight of her Court gown. He knew that she disliked the heavy, hot gown with its multiple layers, and she sometimes remarked that the lace ruff tickled her chin when she moved. The child was vain about her long hair, brushing it often, but the customary black veil she wore hid it from the world. And then—perhaps most cumbersome of all—there was the traditional divided hennin. It was said that some enemies can cast powerful magic by meeting a witch's eyes; to prevent this, the eye-shaped helm covered her from the nose up.

This was the Great Witch's ceremonial ensemble, but Eve only wore it while at Court or on one of her rare excursions to the city. Ever since the Incident she rarely strayed from the castle gates; it had been over half a century since she'd traveled beyond the city walls. She preferred to wander about the castle more informally dressed, and he allowed it when the only ones about were servants. But this was the day after tithe night, and there were too many strangers around the castle for her to be seen unadorned.

She hadn't made a fuss when he'd sent up a note warning to her wear the ensemble; wariness after the incident worked in his favor… though he would have given anything to take the memory away from her. Fear didn't become his Eve, who was so like her bold mother that it often made his heart ache.

Her gauntlets and hennin lay ready on a side table, but the lady's maid was nowhere in sight. Most likely she had already been dismissed to her other duties. Eve had always been independent, and Newton knew that she enjoyed preparing for the day at her own pace. Servants, she claimed, enjoyed nothing more than to hurry her about. _They act as though the world will end if I'm not in place at the striking of the hour. Humans, _she always laughed, expecting him to understand the joke. She liked to forget that he had once been fully human as well.

It was probably better that he didn't understand. Even though he had been transformed, reborn into his role as consort, he'd never lost the spark of humanity that burned in his chest. He found lateness rude, and rudeness appalling. It was a lecture he was fond of: _a queen does not keep her subjects waiting. _To her credit, she always listened with a patience she wielded for precious few. That was what annoyed him so—she was more than happy to listen to his orders… if only she would follow them, as well.

It was easy for the humans of their fair city to stereotype their close cousins; witches certainly acted out of touch with reality at times, and their queen was no exception. He knew that Eve didn't mean any rudeness by her tarrying. It was her nature as a witch; they saw time on a different scale. Why should they hurry, when centuries were theirs for the taking? To a witch, a decade was no more than a drop of water in the rain barrel of their lifespan. Of course, that could be said of him as well; at a mere three hundred and forty-odd years he also had centuries before him… of course, that didn't stop him from feeling the anxious need to hurry when it was pragmatic.

He picked up the gauntlets from the side table, turning the polished metal over in his hands to study the detailed carvings on the palms. They were different, but subtly so. One of them, the left, matched his own golden fingers. The other's twin now dwelled in the Realm of the Dead. He ran a thumb over the jeweled eye, symbol of all witches, and felt the familiar stabbing pain behind his breastbone. Not an evening went by that he didn't miss his wife, and not a morning came that he didn't turn in his bed, fully expecting to roll into her embrace.

Not that he was denied these pleasures, at least fully. As consort, he had the special ability that only his ilk carried—he was able to travel to the Realm of the Dead, seeking company with the Great Witches of ages past. Some were absent from the strange Limbo, having chosen to follow their lovers into whatever lay beyond the veil. But others had stayed, and it was with them he met frequently, asking for their guidance and offering updates on their young progeny. His wife was there as well, unwilling to move on while her family remained behind.

He had become somewhat of an expert at splitting his time evenly between realms. Even so, the weeks leading up to the tithe were spent in the living world, helping to prepare the castle and its inhabitants for the hectic night. He had stayed away longer than usual, and his mood was certainly affected by it.

These feelings weren't without some guilt on his part; at least he was privileged enough to see his beloved, to touch her and speak with her and love her just as easily as he had when she was alive. Poor Eve didn't have the same luck, as it was forbidden for witches to travel beyond the realm of the living. She would not feel her mother's embrace again until it was time for her to make that inevitable final journey; until then, she relied on him to be the messenger boy, carrying gifts and letters between them.

Shaking the melancholy thoughts from his mind, he took her left hand and slipped the gauntlet gently over her fingers. She indulged him as he fixed the straps, shaking her sleeve over it when he was through and holding out her right hand for the other.

"You must hurry," he informed her, sliding the metal into place. His fingers slipped against the roughened, discolored skin of a long scar along her forearm. His throat closed and he tensed against a shiver that ran down his spine. Fifty years ago, they learned that some magic burned too deeply to be erased; he didn't like the reminder. He could only imagine how she felt, seeing it every morning and night.

"Papa?" He blinked, pushing back the thoughts with a firm mental hand. She looked expectantly at him, one slender brow arching when he stared blankly. "I asked what the hurry was. Is something wrong?"

"I'm not sure. We've been summoned to the kitchens." He gestured for her to stand up, lifting the hennin carefully with both hands. "There seems to be a problem with the tithe, and I thought it best that you come along." He placed it carefully on her brow, letting it fall into place and smoothing the dark veil over her ears. The cointoise, draped in graceful arcs, resembled a pair of gossamer wings. She was a newly christened butterfly, ready for her first flight of the day.

"There. You're ready." He lifted her chin with both hands, looking her over one last time. His own eyes were mirrored back at him, the same brilliant shade that attracted her mother's attention a lifetime ago. Her bowed lips twisted into a smile at his scrutiny, head tilting so that one cheek was pillowed into his gloved hand. His heart warmed at the sight, and he patted her cheek fondly before lowering the helm over her forehead. "Let's be off. We don't want to keep them waiting any longer."

* * *

Jean was guarding the kitchen entrance as they rounded the corner, her tiny stature dwarfed by the large door. She stiffened to attention as they approached, offering the Great Witch a low bow from the waist that had most of her hair flying all over the place.

"Good morning, Jean Greyerl." Like any proper lady, Eve was nothing if not amicable to those who served her. She knew the names of her servants, even those she did not interact with on a daily basis. "How are you this morning?"

"I am well, venerable mistress." Jean kept her eyes downcast, head bowing slightly as if being pressed by an invisible hand. He wondered if Eve's aura had an effect on the girl; he didn't notice it himself, but he'd seen more than one castle guard rendered helpless under the full effect of her benevolence. "Mrs. Eclaire is waiting for you inside."

"Thank you, Jean. You may return to your duties now." She looked up at this, eyes wide with shock. "Don't worry. I'm more than capable of making sure no one gets in," he assured her, sending her on her way with a little wave. "Go and help the others; I'll send word when the kitchen is clear for you to return."

"Yes, Master Belduke." He didn't wait to see her follow his orders, instead passing through the gaping maw and into the kitchens proper. Eve followed behind him a swirl of skirts, looking with interest at the firelit chamber with its myriad of magic. A castle kitchen ought to have been bursting with the energy of frantic servants, and it was certainly bustling... but here, there were no skirts beyond those of the baker herself.

Mrs. Eclaire was mistress of the kitchen, and she ruled her domain with an fist. A tiny lump of a witch—in the best possible sense of the word—she looked as though she'd been fashioned from dough herself. Her plump cheeks sparkled with stray sugar, and her whole body was built around a pudgy, soft form that belied a stout constitution. Her hands were always dwarfed by large oven mitts; he was certain he'd never seen her without them.

Magic served as her helpers, with the fire stoking itself, dishes lining up to be washed, and dough finding its own place to sit and rise. She did the work of an entire legion on her own, and was happiest that way. She had the sweetness of cherries and the temper of a chimera; he wasn't the only one afraid to be caught on the wrong side of her rolling pin.

"Oh, Master Belduke!" The woman hurried to greet him, her kindly black eyes narrowed in distress. "I'm so glad you've come! What a to-do; I've been nearly beside myself with worry." She saw Eve and stopped short, offering a curtsy; in her pale green work dress and starched apron, it came off as both polite and informal. "Your Majesty, you're welcome too," she added quickly, but she was clearly too troubled to concern herself with the Great Witch in her kitchen—especially one she'd seen born and raised under her nose.

"What's wrong, Mrs. Eclaire? Tell me all about it." The kitchen was too crowded to know what, if anything, was out of place. The ceremonial handcarts had stayed in the buttery, where there was ample space to hold them; the city merchants were always eager to take them off the castle's hands, sometimes waiting years for their chance to purchase one. But the tithe sorting always took place in the kitchen, so that Mrs. Eclaire could oversee the process without falling behind in her own daily work.

From the look of things, the sorting had been stopped somewhere in the middle. On one side of the kitchen were great stacks of food, all sorted by size and usage. There were all manner of vegetables, wild seeds and berries, mounds upon mounds of gourds, fruits of every shape and size, even wooden baskets holding confused, clucking poultry. One very sullen goat had been tied to a wooden beam and was chewing staunchly on its rope, staring at its new captors with large blue eyes.

There were new things too, the sort of which he'd not seen on any past tithes in his memory. Sticky golden honey, spices that he couldn't name, even cases of wine from as far as the Mediterranean. His nose wrinkled at the briny stench of the ocean; one stack was nothing but fish. He didn't doubt Mrs. Eclaire's ability to keep the gaping creatures fresh, but the overpowering salty odor was more than he cared to handle.

"It wouldn't happen to be this, would it?" he managed, resisting the urge to cover his nose with a clean handkerchief. Mrs. Eclaire shook her head.

"No, sir. Many of the Shades claimed that the tithes were odd this year, not the sort of thing their settlements would be offering. I didn't think anything of it until… well… until the tithe from Labyrinthia." She began to chew her lower lip, worrying it between her teeth as she thought. "It arrived around eight, I believe, or maybe nine—it's so hard to keep track of time when you're busy."

"That's alright," he stated patiently. "Just tell us what happened."

"With all due respect, I believe it'd be easier for you to see for yourselves." She made a gesture with one hand; despite the oven mitt, he recognized the sign of a crooked finger. "It's not that I'm frightened, mind you," she said over her shoulder as they made their way around the stacks of food. "I'm just not sure what I'm supposed to _do_. Nothing like this has ever happened before, at least not in my memory. Even when I was an apprentice witch, I'd never heard of a—well, you'll see."

Two Shades stood guard in front of the door to the buttery, crammed shoulder to shoulder in the narrow stone alley that led between the two rooms. The Shades were all castle servants from varying walks of life; once a year they donned the ceremonial hooded robes, venturing from the city in pairs to collect the settlement tithes.

He recognized these two at once: they were part of the Vigilantes, the Great Witch's personal bodyguard. They jumped to attention at the sight of their mistress, nearly clonking skulls as they both tried to bow at the same time in the cramped space. _Good grief…._

"Good morrow, Master Belduke!"

"Hello, Captain. Sir Vigilante." The captain of the Vigilantes and one of his lackies. Again, more people who knew better than to waste the Great Witch's time with trivialities. The knot in his stomach tightened further. If they were also raising an alarm, something must be wrong.

"Good morning, Captain Boistrum." Eve peered as best she could around her father's gangly form, gracing her men with a smile. "Sir Balmung." While the captain was unaffected, the poor lad fairly steamed under her direct gaze. He sank into his armor, cheeks darkening as he tried to wither and vanish under the weight of his own shyness. One hand jumped, trying to salute her once more, but his elbow slammed against the stone wall and he could only swallow a muted gasp of pain.

Eve didn't appear to notice his bashfulness; her expression, while pleasant, remained politely distant. Newton felt a stab of pity for the poor lad, along with a healthy dose of uneasiness. Her reserved nature gave him enough cause to fret as her advisor, much less as her father. She was a popular ruler, and beautiful enough that many a young man in the armada would give anything to be named as her consort. And, had she shown interest in even one infatuated footman, he would not thought have thought twice about her spurning a few hopeful—if not ideal—suitors.

The Great Witch, however, seemed to ignore every man that pined for her. Newton understood the difficulty of her position. Human life was as quick-lived and fragile as an autumn frost; he wasn't sure how any witches could stand to take a human lover, knowing that they would flourish and wilt between blinks. His daughter was already two centuries old: their devotion to her must seem sweet, innocent even, but childish at best. She could recall their grandfathers as infants. To her, they were little better than blushing schoolboys in the thralls of puppy love.

Clearing his throat, he brushed the errant thought aside. There would be plenty of time to play the role of a well-meaning father later. Right now, these men were expecting the court advisor to address them… and that's exactly who they would get. He leveled both guards with a stern frown, brow knitting as he angled his chin to meet their agitated expressions.

"Ms. Greyerl informed me that there was a problem with _your _tithe, gentlemen. Care to explain?" He meant for them to give the same standard report they might rattle off to the archivists: where they were, what they saw, and how they handled it. The captain and his subordinate shared a look that was apprehensive, if not downright terrified; before he could ask the meaning of it, they began to speak.

"It's my fault, Master Belduke—"

"We meantnothing by it—"

"Just a harmless bit of magic—"

"Dunno whatwent wrong—"

They spoke over each other, gesturing wildly; the Captain's rough voice cracked as he tried to drown his comrade's high-pitched stammer. Newton, trying to keep pace, felt his temples began to throb with a headache. He raised a hand and they choked off the end of their half-finished sentences, falling into an abrupt, fearful silence. He took a breath, clearing his head before addressing them once more.

"What on earth are you talking about?" They shared another glance, a silent conversation passing between them. It certainly didn't bode well; he felt a sinking feeling in his lower stomach at the sight. _What have these two done? I didn't plan on relieving anyone of their duties today…. _"I asked you a question," he pressed, hardening his tone. "What _magic_?"

"'Twas only a sleep spell, honest!" Sir Balmung swore, running a hand through his shorn locks. He shook in his boots, but a wayward glance at his captain had him making a second attempt at bravery. "T-the Captain is amazing at 'em, he can put out an insomniac in five minutes. Only… well, it wasn't our fault he was fighting it! You see—"

"I was the one who weaved the magic, Master Belduke," Boistrum interrupted, bowing his head in apparent remorse. "I meant for him to wake at dawn, but I misjudged my timing and Sir Balmung stepped in to help. I take full blame; if anyone should be punished for this clear error, let it be me."

"I never seen one go so wrong before," Balmung offered meekly. "We've no idea what happened; we've been talking it over all morning and still can't make heads or tails of it. That is… well, h-he's not _dead_, sir…" he trailed off hesitatingly. Newton couldn't begin to formulate an answer to that. As the two spoke, their halting words had seemed to flow through his mind like water through open fingers. Only one word stuck long enough for him to grasp.

Apparently, the Great Witch's thoughts followed the same pattern as his own.

"Who is _he_?" she asked, head tilted in confusion. Both men paused, calculating, and then pointed as one to the open buttery door.

"Him." _Whom? _The buttery was dim, too dark to see any farther than the flagstone just past the threshold. There was no telling what—whom, apparently—would be laying in wait within. Swallowing thickly, he summoned a glowing ball of witchlight with a snap of his long fingers; it floated obediently ahead of him as he ducked under the threshold, trying to avoid cracking his skull on the room's low ceiling.

The other carts had been wheeled to stand in neat rows along the back wall, their wilted garlands drooping like cobwebs in the darkness. Only one remained near the outer door, handles propped against a large crate to keep the center leveled. He crept towards it, leery of accidentally startling anything that stirred out of sight. Just because it had been sleeping did not mean it _slept_, and besides: neither had exactly clarified what to expect. It might be a bear, or a lion, or a… camel. His mind raced, trying to conjure the most exotic animal he could think of. A tiger, or an elephant. An angry gander?

Eve had followed him, one hand fisted in the sleeve at his elbow; she had to take two steps for his one. He could feel the tension radiating off her small form, excitement building as they picked their way across the empty room. His instinct was to warn her away, reminding her that whatever lay in the cart might be dangerous. But he also knew that her magic was more powerful than his own, and she could easily protect herself from something as tame as a beast.

He felt her start, the jolt traveling through her clenched fingers. He jumped as well, resisting the urge to fling out his hand and protect her; he saw nothing, his eyes too human to pierce the shadows beyond the witchlight's faint gleam. She let go of his arm, picking up her skirts to race towards the cart.

"Ev—Your Majesty!" He followed haphazardly, unwilling to let her be alone in the dark with whatever they'd dragged from the ground and dared to give as a tithe. He stopped short when the light finally illuminated the cart, mouth falling open and the air rushing from his lungs in a stale, half-smothered yelp. He blinked once, twice, but… no, his eyes weren't playing tricks on him. The tithe—it was—the tithe was a—

"Oh, Papa." Eve barely breathed as she knelt beside the cart, both hands hovering over the immobile form. "Look… it's a man. A human man."

"I am looking," he croaked. Of all the things he'd expected to be curled up asleep in the cart, a human was the last—no, not even that! He would have had to expect a human to consider it an option in the first place! He relaxed, shoulders slumping as he loomed over the lad, beckoning the light closer to get a good look at just _what _they were dealing with.

He was a young man, even by human standards—he could not have been over four and twenty, if that. Half-curled on his side it was easy to see the breadth of his shoulders, a frame that spoke of muscles hidden beneath the fur-lined cloak. His hair was nearly as red as Mrs. Eclaire's, messily chopped with uneven bangs. A scar sliced his left eyebrow in two, adding a rugged edge to what was an otherwise handsome visage. His brow was furrowed in sleep, a pensive frown tugging at full lips.

Newton recognized Mabon tidings in the wreath of leaves, draped with agate beads. One hand was partially uncovered, and what appeared to be sapphires glistened from within the thick fox fur lining. There was no doubt in his mind that the rest of his clothing was just as eloquent as the makeshift blanket he was beneath. As if reading his thoughts, Eve pushed a fold of the cloak aside with one golden finger, revealing the rise of his hip; beneath the thick leather of a new belt, he was clad in both a padded doublet and an embroidered jerkin.

Eve's lips parted, a pleased breath escaping between her teeth as she leaned closer to the motionless figure. Ignoring her for the moment, he turned his attention instead to the sleeping spell, thick as a layer of snow over the poor boy's form. Hiding an amused smirk, he tested the fading spell's remaining strength before turning to the door. The other three awaited his judgement, their shadows dark against the threshold. He waved them in, trying to force his features into something that could be considered comforting.

"You may come in, it's alright—that's it," he encouraged, keeping his voice level to calm them. The guards approached the cart as though it held something dangerous, hovering where his body could easily be placed as a shield. Mrs. Eclaire, bolder than the supposed bodyguards, drew close to the railing. She guided the witchlight with her mitt, frowning as she scrutinized the scowling face.

"He 'ent dying, is he?" Sir Balmung asked fearfully.

"He's fine. You merely wound the spell a little tighter than you ought've. It's already starting to fade, so he might as well sleep the rest of it off." He rubbed one cheek, frowning himself as he studied the dark bags beneath the closed lashes. "It's probably for the best, in any case. He looks as though he may need all the sleep he can get."

"He's not been eating well, either." Mrs. Eclaire leaned over the railing, prodding brazenly at his stomach. "These clothes are brand new. They were tailored for him, and recently—I'd bet my mitts on it. But look at how they sag in the middle here. He's been going without food for days, if not longer." Her round face crumpled in sympathy. "Poor little lamb, I'll bet they worried him sick. It's a wonder he's not wasted away to nothing. Who is he, do you reckon?"

"More importantly—why is he here?" Newton rubbed his chin. "And where is the rest of the tithe?"

"He said he's it," Boistrum piped up. "There was nothing else in the clearing. He was sitting alone on the empty cart when we arrived."

"He's a knight," Balmung added.

"That's right, he did say that. Order of the Owl, I think? He did tell us his name; it was Sir… um…." Boistrum screwed his eyes shut, arms crossing as he tried to remember. "Sir Barnhart? Barn-hinge? Barn owl? 'Twas an odd name, I remember that much."

"I thought it was Barnham," Balmung offered helpfully.

"Oi, that's it! Sir Barnham, of the Owl's Order. Anyway, he said that the harvest was terrible, so the village decided to keep their food and offer him as tithe instead. Dressed him up for it and everything, from the looks of it."

"A human… tithe?" Newton rubbed his eyes. The headache was coming back, full force. "Good lord," he swore lightly, shaking his head. "What on earth will these humans think up next. Moreover, _why _would they believe that the Great Witch would—"

"What are we even supposed to do with the boy?" Mrs. Eclaire asked. "I can't very well add him in with the barn animals… although I'm sure that billy goat would like to have a go at his crown." She was right. He couldn't be stacked and sorted with the rest of the tithes, but what were they meant to do with a _human_?! Even worse, what on earth were they supposed to tell the lad when he woke? _My heavens! How troublesome! _

"I will consult the records," he announced, mostly to the baker. "I know of past tithes where, in times of hardship, they made offer of jewels and metals in lieu of food. Perhaps there is another known instance where a human subject was made tithe. Surely we can find something to guide us on what must be done."

"Well, we certainly can't eat him." Mrs. Eclaire put her hands on her hips. "Humans. I'll never understand the lot." Then, looking over her shoulder at the cart, her expression softened with a gentle warmth. "But he does look like a sweet child. You don't need magic to see he's had a hard life." It was clear that her first instinct was to mother him, to fill him with hot meals and tuck him into a cozy bed. Newton frowned; he must guard them all against that sort of thing. If there were some way to send him back, they would honor it as a matter of course. This was no bleating farm animal, after all—this was a human soul.

"I'll get to the bottom of this," he assured them, running a hand over his forehead. "It may take some time, though, and I don't want him wandering off. I'd like very much to hear his version of events…." His fingers habitually found the one lock of hair that never seemed to stay put behind his ear, tugging it absently as he thought. He was the Court Advisor. It was his job to keep order, and keep order he would. "Mrs. Eclaire, I need you to keep an eye on him until I can consult him myself."

"Of course, Master Belduke. I'll wrap him up snug as a bug near the fire, and he can eat himself a nice hot breakfast when he wakes up." She cheered, clearly relieved now that he'd taken the matter into his own hands. He glanced over to see the Vigilantes visibly relaxing as well. Their faith gave him a belated sense of pride; they trusted him enough to believe that things would work out simply because he said it would. They believed him wholeheartedly, and he wouldn't let them down.

"Thank you, madam." He bowed. "And as for you two…." The Vigilantes froze, eyes widening only to sputter into relief at his smile. "Thank you for a job well done. Go and find your breakfast." His small praise filled them out overflowing.

"Thank you, sir!"

"Good day, Master Belduke!" He nodded them out, hands locked behind his back. It was only when they rounded the corner that he let the air from his lungs out in a soft _whoosh_.

"What a morning… this will certainly give the archivists something to gossip about. Come along, Eve. I'm sure that we'll—" He faltered, noticing his daughter's actions for the first time.

Upon seeing the outsider, she had weaved together a tight glamour. He could see if he concentrated, hovering at the ready in case the outsider woke. To someone not well versed in magic, the shadowy cloak of a spell would make her seem a fearsome, almost inhuman creature.

Her posture, on the other hand, was anything but formidable: cheek pillowed on one arm, she reclined against the cart railing with the sole intent of staring directly at its lone occupant. He was reminded of the nymphs on her vanity—what little he could see of her expression beneath the helm mirrored their expression.

Her free hand trailed idly over his stalwart features, tracing up the scar on his brow and over his cheekbones with a featherlike touch. Golden claws smoothed his bangs gently, following the natural curve of his cheekbone back to his ear and smoothing the hair at his temples as well. She smiled, wrapped up in her own exploration, and bent over the passive face. Her head tilted and a momentary flutter of panic spread like ice through his veins, chilling him to the core.

"Eve!" Her head jerked, an innocent frown pushing the corners of her painted mouth.

"Yes?" He floundered, unsure of what exactly had prompted him to call her name in the first place.

"W-were you listening to me?" he managed to choke out, gulping. The lace ruff at his throat seemed to constrict, biting into the skin under his Adam's apple, but he knew better than to tug at it.

"Of course, Papa. You said you were going to check the archive records, and that Mrs. Eclaire should keep an eye on him in the meantime." _Well… I can't find fault with her there. _Even as she spoke, her fingers danced over the motionless cheek. He watched them with a wariness he didn't understand, suppressing a shiver before nodding to the buttery door.

"If you heard that, then you also heard me tell you to come. We'll leave him in Mrs. Eclaire's capable hands." What would he do if she refused? She couldn't stay here with him, after all. _No. There can be no unsupervised contact. _It was bad enough that the baker was starting to be affected by his presence. If _Eve _became attached to him…. He couldn't bring himself to finish. Sometimes it was better not to tempt fate with idle thoughts. "Come along, now," he repeated firmly.

To his relief, she obeyed with a resigned pout. Taking her hand from his face, she leaned past his lips to whisper directly into his ear; he saw the spell she cast fall, softly as mist, over his expression. It softened, smoothing instantly into peaceful slumber. Humming to herself, she lingered only a moment longer before taking his proffered hand and allowing him to lead her back to the kitchens.

Mrs. Eclaire, now back to her sorting, waved them a hearty goodbye. He was fairly sure she'd added something else—perhaps just a renewal of her vow to follow his orders to the letter—but he was beyond hearing. His mind was awhirl with thoughts, each bumping against the other like tree limbs in a maelstrom. Louder and louder they grew, echoing endlessly until he wanted to press the heels of his palms against his eyelids so that they might slow down.

_A human tithe—Eve—knight of the Order—Vigilantes in Shade robes— golden fingers against red hair—ancient rites—archivists—perhaps She might know—what would her mother say? _

The last of these brought him to a standstill. He knew now what the panic had been about. Eve hadn't set foot from the city walls since her mother's death. There were weeks at a time that she didn't leave the castle grounds. Her fear had made her wary of her own citizens, especially those she didn't know well. But she had been, well… _entranced_ by that boy.

As if reading his thoughts, she let out a little sigh.

"What do you plan on doing, Papa? Will the Archive really have information on human tithes?"

"I hope so. Surely we aren't the first to face discrepancies in the tithes. This is why the archives exist—if there are proper channels already in place, then we must use them."

"And if there's not?" He set his jaw, unwilling to entertain the thought for long.

"Then you know very well what I must do. I hate to leave a decision like this for so long, but if I cannot find anything in the old records then the only thing left would be to ask the advice of the Ancestral Witches. One of them may have faced something similar in their time." It wasn't the journey that he minded; he made it often enough. But the time difference between the realm of the living and that of the dead was never stationary. One night with the dead could equal an hour here, or a week, or a year.

"…I hope we can keep him." That rankled, in a way he couldn't describe. It was an old hurt, flaring up and dying just as quickly, but still painful enough that he bristled at the notion.

"You listen to me, Eve. I don't want you going near him until I have a definitive answer." He summoned his best father-voice, the one that was intended to demand respect. "He is a man, not a stray dog you can keep like a pet. I'm hoping that we can wash our hands of the whole affair. If I can find a way to send him back where he came from, that's exactly what I'll do."

"But he's my tithe!" she protested. "They gave him to me. I'm the one that's supposed to accept or deny him. Shouldn't I decide whether he stays or leaves?" The frightful truth was that he didn't know, but he would rather die than admit that to her. He didn't need her mask off to know that a familiar obstinate spark was glinting in her eye.

"Don't you worry about that. Just do as I say and _stay away from him_. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Papa." Her smile didn't reach the corners of her lips, and he knew she obeyed only out of respect for him as her father. He tensed, waiting for what he knew would come next, and wasn't disappointed. "But all the same, I do wish we could keep him."

"He's a human, Eve. He has a life outside of this city and it's not right for us to keep him from it." He couldn't stop the tired groan that slipped out along with his words. "What would you want with him, anyway?"

"I don't know." She let out an airy sigh, looking past him to something only she could see. "He just seemed so… so lonely. We might do each other some good."

"I don't see how," he responded curtly. "Now run along, there's a dear. You can't keep everyone waiting, even on tithe day." She lifted on tiptoe, kissing the underside of his jaw before floating away down the corridor.

He watched her go, silently praying that she would honor her word by obeying his. _She can't be allowed to form an attachment to this man. I'd never hear the end of it. Still—we? Lonely? _He gulped, feeling a cold sweat break out over his forehead.

"Who am I kidding… she's already decided, hasn't she?"


	4. Kitchen

The Great Archive was the very definition of organized chaos. A centralized hub of information, its peaked roofs were visible from anywhere within the city walls. Its shelves held a wealth of knowledge that spanned from the dawn of time: there were scrolls rescued from the burning library at Alexandria, cuneiform tablets that only certain scholars could translate, even tracts from religions long forgotten by mankind.

In addition it was also a hall of records: criminal records, family trees, informational texts for every occupation imaginable. And—should those not be enough to satisfy even the most curious of minds—there were codices, grimoires, libelles, manuscripts, as well as any number of pamphlets from authors both within the city and _à l'étranger_.

It was also a civic building, the place for permits, licenses, and general exchange of coin. Plenty of merchants stood grumbling in an eternal queue before the front desk. A lone solicitor could be found in nearly every secluded corner, pouring over an ancient deed or old contract. But they weren't the only patrons; once past the massive double doors, nearly all manner of persons could be found lurking within the stone walls.

Most were ordinary citizens looking to supplement their knowledge: baggy eyed apprentices bending over instructional documents, conscious suppliers reading of the latest far-off exports, even common housewives searching for an easy cleaning spell. The castle servants also gravitated there in their downtime, relaxing in the relative peace and idly flipping through bound covers at the shelves. And, of course, there were countless archivists charging about in an attempt to bring order.

Some magical and some not, the archivists were nevertheless notorious for being able to pull obscure books from thin air. They tiptoed around corners, shushing the ebb and flow of conversation whenever it grew above a hum. They argued with angry farmers over property tax. They unabashedly aided giggling maidens in the pursuit of questionable pamphlets. They frowned down their noses at anyone bold enough to bring food near the valuable manuscripts.

The leader of these literary warriors was Ridelle Mystere, a young-ish witch who'd recently taken up the mantle of head librarian. Despite the dowdy position, she was a fashionable girl with the modest frills and the latest eyewear—there were certainly no archaic reading stones upon _her_ desk. She had an air of a little matron with her pink curls trapped beneath a netted snood, gliding like a spectre through the tall shelves with an unmanned cart of books wheeling along in her wake.

It was she that Newton came to see, breathing a sigh of relief at the sight of her thin frame at the sorting desk. Her part of the tithe couldn't start until the sorting was completed, but even with a delay in the proceedings she wasn't the sort of witch to twiddle her thumbs in idleness. She sat behind the polished wood, placidly stamping the cards from a floating line of smaller tomes waiting to be returned to their proper shelves. At her elbow, a quill scrawled across sheets of parchment in a neat series of loops, shaking off excess ink as it moved of its own accord.

"Good morrow, Ms. Mystere." Newton tried to keep his voice down as he approached, pausing only to allow another driverless cart rumbling down the main aisle the right of way. Despite the muted hum of voices and odd squeak of ladder wheels, the Archive was still a library; the act of silence had been drilled into every citizen by the young lady before him. It was whispered that she'd once transformed a silk merchant into a silk bookmark when he'd dared to raise his voice at her—a most charming rumor, but reportedly untrue. Still, he wasn't a man to take chances.

"Good _afternoon_, Sir Belduke," she corrected. Her left hand continued to stamp, muted thumps that punctuated her words. "The noon hour has already come and gone. Since you're here, I trust that the tithe process is back to full efficiency?" Her calm eyes held the barest hint of agitation. "I was rather put out when I heard there was to be a delay."

"Ah, yes… it is. There was a slight… issue," he explained slowly, tugging at his lace cuffs, "but it's been—being—taken care of." Ridelle pursed her lips, sharp eyes cutting through his nervous smile as she continued to stamp.

"I'm sure that you, being the prominent head of affairs, can understand the gravity of my position? Sir?" _Stamp. _"It is, of course, crucial that our records must be—well, recorded—as quickly as possible." _Stamp. _"Making corrections after tithe day has come and gone… 'tis a fine hassle, to say the least, is it not?" _Stamp. _"Very cumbersome, I assure you. Especially when the harvest has already been consumed." _Stamp. _

"I am aware. And I thank you for understanding. It's been quite a while since we've had problems with the annual tithe, so I've been told. Nothing like this has happened in all my years as an advisor, so I'm sure you can see the challenge."

"Challenge or no challenge, that's hardly an excuse for this sort of delay." _Stamp. _"The true challenge is constantly annotating the record books." _Stamp. _"Every correction costs time, which—in my opinion at least—is far more valuable than coin."

"Yes, I'm sure." Newton took a slow breath, drawing on his wellspring of patience. It was a rarity for an archivist, even the punctual ones like Ms. Mystere, to hurry towards any point. They were wrapped up in the plodding world of crisp pages—facts and figures must be correct for the sake of posterity. Anything that hindered their work was sure to be looked down on with nothing less than open disdain, even unavoidable circumstances. _Then again, _he thought wryly, _it's better that they be a pedantic lot. It makes my job easier._

"On that subject," he segued, "I have a small request to make. I need to view the tithe records." The stamping stopped abruptly. The shrewd eyes narrowed, studying him over the arched windows of her spectacles. Her gloved fingers released the stamp, lacing together in front of her on the desk.

"All of them? At once?" He nearly stumbled, one hand reaching out to steady himself on the desk. _What an absurd question! _There were tithe records dating back to the time before parchment, for goodness sake!

"Of course not!"

"Then _which _records would you be interested in viewing?" she asked, one thin brow jumping in amusement. "As I'm sure you are aware, we will be requiring the most recent volume quite soon."

"I'm not interested in anything recent," he confessed. "In fact, I'm looking for something rather specific." Swallowing hard, he leaned closer to the sitting librarian. "I need to see… well, the thing is—" How could he ever hope to say it? Even now, his mind was still stumbling over the oddity that was a human tithe. _Leave it to humans to come up with something so… so imprudent…. _"What I need are the volumes that hold records of material goods. Non foodstuffs."

"That's hardly specific, sir. Please elaborate." Her head tilted from side to side as she began to rattle off the list. "Textiles? Jewels? Leather? Parchment? Ink? Rugs? Fibers? Metals? Stones?"

"Well, those would certainly help," he admitted. "But I'm more interested in things that can't be divided, or easily consumed." His swallow was more of a gulp as he lowered his voice, the resulting whisper barely audible above the droning atmosphere. "Living things."

"Such as farm animals, you mean? Birds? Exotic and diverse creatures?"

"Such as men." Ridelle's eyes widened, mouth falling open at the admission. To her credit, she merely cleared her throat before attempting an answer.

"Living tithes. Let's see." She adjusted her glasses as they began to slip down her nose. "I don't recall any such tithe from memory; something like that would certainly stand out. However, I also haven't had the time to read through the volumes dated before the mid-fourteenth century. In ancient times, perhaps…?"

"Even if there are no _living _tithes," he added hopefully, "I can probably make do with those concerning finery. Silks, diamonds… the sort of things that were often gifted in the time of Angéle the Ancient? Anything that would deviate from the normal process, you see."

"Yes, I see." Tapping a finger to her chin, she rose slowly and stared at the stained glass forming part of the archive's main dome. "Do make yourself comfortable, Master Belduke. I'll see what I can find." With that she was off, her rapid footsteps hurrying down the main aisle before rounding a corner and becoming lost in the sea of muted activity.

He took his time in gathering parchment from a shelf of supplies before choosing a secluded table on the lower floor, half hidden in a shadowed nook. The wall sconce gave off just enough light to read by, and the table was large enough that he could spread out the parchment before pulling a crystal inkwell and his second favorite quill from his pocket. While he sharpened the quill to a fine point, a leather-bound tome floated from the upper story and landed with a soft _whomp _on the edge of the table. It was soon followed by another, then a third, and a few loosely bound notes of animal hide.

Settling into the high-backed chair, he grabbed the first tome; on the embossed, illuminated cover were the letters MC-MCL. Cracking it open, he ignored the musty scent of the pages as he pulled a reading stone from his pocket. Squinting at the tight, handwritten scrawl, he bent his head and began to read.

* * *

Opening his eyes, he found himself alone.

"_Ma-aa_." No, not quite alone. Licking his chapped lips, Barnham turned his head only to come face to face with a pair of icy blue eyes. Startled, he blinked and cringed away from the horizontal slits; dark horns curled around flat, pointed ears and white, uneven teeth were stained orange with what appeared to be a pumpkin. _Goat._

Satisfied with the answer, he rubbed a tired hand over his cheek and found it thick with at least two days' worth of patchy stubble. As if the goat in itself wasn't odd enough, he found himself stumped by this latest discovery. A morning shave was an essential part of his routine, one that he was loathe to miss. However, his state of hygiene was quickly becoming an afterthought; he looked around, his confusion mounting as he realized that nothing in the room seemed familiar in the slightest. _Where… am I?_

The ceiling was made of vaulted stone, with thick pillars to help absorb the heavy weight; some places were streaked black with what might have been soot. Rolling partway onto his side, he noticed that the broad hearthstone beneath the goat's hooves matched what was above his head, albeit neatly polished. He found himself laying on a pallet of fresh, crackling hay, but dressed for something other than sleep.

With growing desperation, he tried to remember exactly what had been happening before falling asleep. It was harder than it ought to have been; his mind was woozy, sluggish and unresponsive. It was as if he'd accepted one too many toasts at Rouge's the previous night. He had been at Rouge's… hadn't he? He could remember the familiar voices, the ale, even the patrons' heavy snoring. But this wasn't Rouge's, and he wasn't the sort of man to drink to excess in an unfamiliar tavern.

Struggling to his elbows, he blinked the sleep from his eyes and tried to gain his bearings. Looking for something, _anything _familiar, he instead found himself surrounded by heaps of… vegetables? Mountains of knobby potatoes, most carrying the telltale signs of a drought year. Thin carrots in varied colors, thick stalks of onions waiting to be braided, small cabbages with broad leaves. There were even large woven baskets, filled with everything from apples and pears to purple-hued turnips. The goat, tethered to the handle of a heavy iron cauldron, clopped past him and bent over a lopsided pumpkin. He took a generous bite, chewing away with his tail swishing in short circles.

_Astounding. _Barnham rubbed his eyes, looking about him and wondering, briefly, if it was uncouth to take a turnip from the bunch to break his fast. _I haven't seen this much food in ages, surely not since last year's_—

Panic flooded his veins at the thought of the tithe, sending his heart into overdrive. Finally, the previous day's events saw fit to wash over him a series of still images. The high priestess slipping sapphires over his bared wrists. Torches at dusk. Stars twinkling at him in the clearing. Two hooded figures. A blinding light in the darkness. A current of song light enough to float away with. The easy nothingness of deepest sleep. Breath at his earlobe. A woman's soft voice. A lover's caress.

_Witches!_

He remembered now, all too clearly. He'd been offered as a sacrifice, and accepted. The witches had taken him from the clearing—or their servants, or… or _whoever _had been with him, draped in the color of midnight. They'd ferried him from the life he'd known, carried through the Eldwitch Wood on the back of a handcart like he'd been little more than a useless sack of grain. And by something as unnatural as witchlight, no less. Then they'd bewitched him, and now? Now he'd abandoned heaven-knows where, with no more company than a hungry billy goat and a half-eaten pumpkin.

Deserted, yes—but someone, he reasoned, _had _been here. The handcart was gone, and the hay beneath him had been shaped into a rudimentary sort of pallet; not the most comfortable bed by any stretch, but he'd had to make do with worse in his time. His cloak and boots were missing, but a woolen blanket covered his legs, pooling in lumpy folds at his middle. It had clearly been tucked around him at some point during his slumber.

Reaching up tentatively, he found that the wreath of leaves and the yellow agate both were missing from his hair. The sapphire bracelets were missing as well, and he knew without looking that the starlit brooch had vanished with the emerald cloak. His confusion bubbled into anger, hot and sticky in his throat. It seemed to be the first proper emotion of the day. Those garments, however begrudgingly accepted, had still been _his_. They were all he had left in the world, and now they were gone. How dare they take them away without his consent! He could feel agitation stirring to life below the fury, the creeping realization that someone had touched him without his knowledge. He'd slept, bewitched, while strange hands stole from him. _Violated _him.

"Well, now!" The jolly tone took him entirely off-guard; it was loud, out of sight, and far too close for comfort. He jumped hard enough that it upset the hay beneath him, forcing him into a half recline as he fought to throw the blanket from his legs. His hand went automatically for his blade, only to remember at the last moment that they'd taken it from him at dawn. Still, he craved something in his hands, and ended up gripping the blanket in two white-knuckled fists. He could always use it as a distraction if needing to make a fast escape.

The voice belonged to a dumpy woman in a green kirtle. She was short enough that, even sitting, his eyes were level with the neatly tied bow of her cap strings. Beneath the white cloth, her red hair was the same hue as the embers glowing in the massive hearth. Her eyes were the darkest he'd ever seen, and there was a wry tilt to her mouth that suggested a quick wit was hiding behind her doughy cheeks.

She paused beside the cabbage pile, polishing a green apple on her stained apron before studying it with an appraising eye. She didn't seem to notice the clear shock written across his face—or, more likely, she thought better to ignore it for the time being.

"So," she began, speaking more to the apple, "we're awake, are we?" Her twinkling eyes narrowed, dimples etching into her cheeks as she smiled. "It's about time you came 'round. I was beginning to think you'd sleep another day through," she said conversationally.

_Day? This is not the morning after tithe night? How long have I been sleeping? _He opened his mouth to ask this final question, but could only manage a rusty croak. Thirst burned in the back of his throat, teeth mossy with sleep. He ran his tongue over the inside of both cheeks, wincing at the dryness he found. The woman's thick brows crinkled in a pitying sort of way; slipping the fruit into her apron pocket, she scurried out of sight only to return with a polished tankard.

"Here, child. Drink it up, there's a dear." He caught the earthy, sour hint of ale and needed no further encouragement. Hurriedly, he took the tankard from her mitted hands and drained it without a second thought. The thought of poison only occurred to him as the last drops trickled onto his parched tongue, but he found himself beyond caring. It abated his thirst, and that was all that mattered. Taking a deep breath, he released a muffled belch before trying again to speak.

"Where am I?"

"Castle kitchen," she quipped. "Here, have another glass." The mug was full once more, lukewarm liquid sloshing against the tankard's silver sides. He had not handed back the cup, nor had she left to refill it. it had simply refilled between blinks, as though it answered to the sound of her suggestion. He stared down at his rippling reflection, gulping before looking up at her with a despairing sort of helplessness. She ignored him, offering an amicable smile and a nod. "Go on, then! Drink all you like; there's plenty where that came from."

He didn't know what else to do, so he obliged her and drank again. This time, there was some ale left in the bottom of the tankard; he set it aside, making sure that it was out of the curious goat's reach before steadying his hands on his bent knees. He took one deep breath, than another, making sure that he wouldn't break down and shame himself completely before this witch—for she _was_ a witch, of that he was certain. Her hand smoothed over the top of his head, sending a warm current from the roots of his hair down to his heels. The touch was familiar in a way he couldn't describe; he wanted to relax into it, but instead forced himself to question further.

"Pray tell, mother: who's castle?" He already dreaded the answer. The witch looked at him oddly.

"The Great Witch's, naturally. Who else?" He wasn't sure how to answer that, but it was clear she didn't expect one. Putting her hand to one plump cheek, she tutted down at him. "You were quite the sight when you came in, love—still are, but a hot meal will put you to rights." His stomach growled, clearly in agreement with her notion. But it was one thing to take ale, another entirely to take food. Especially food that was most likely magicked in some wicked way.

"Don't trouble yourself, I… don't…." He trailed off, losing both what little appetite he had as well as what was left of his already shaky resolve. A _pot _was floating past him in midair, bobbing along to stand at attention at the witch's elbow. Taking the handle, she ladled thick stew into a bowl while humming a cheerful ditty.

Turning to look behind him, he slowly blanched at the scene that unfolded. There were no servants to be found, but what a flurry of activity! Apples peeled and cored themselves over a basin, their skins dropping through the air in perfect green spirals. Two chickens turned on an unmanned spit; as he watched, a spoon drizzled drippings over the crisp, browning flesh. Dough thumped on a cutting board, flour falling like snow through the air before invisible hands punched and shaped it into a smooth ball.

"Here we are!" The bowl hovered before his eyes and he took it on instinct, trying to ignore that he had accepted it from thin air. Peering warily at its steaming contents, he readied himself to see toad spawn, newt eyes, even a snail without its shell. To his immense relief it was a standard pottage, vegetables and barley floating in broth with what appeared to be hare. It smelled divine, twisting his stomach into hungry knots; if the witch was to be believed, he'd missed more than one meal while sleeping off the spell.

"I am grateful to you," he began, "only—"

"Oh! I nearly forgot." Still smiling, she produced a loaf of bread: white bread, not brown. His mouth watered as she cut him a generous portion, spreading it thick with creamy butter. "It's my special recipe," she said with a wink. "Everyone knows that I make the softest, fluffiest bread in the whole city." He accepted the offered slice meekly, still wondering how he could politely refuse. Was this her way of fattening him up for the kill? After all, he'd been left in the kitchens, surrounded by vegetables and at least one farm animal. Surely they viewed him as fodder, too.

"Well? Don't be shy!" she clucked. "It may cook itself, but it certainly won't eat itself." He gaped at her like an idiot, clutching bread in one hand and stew in the other. When he didn't move to eat, her smile fell away. Eyes narrowing, she crossed her arms and glared at him. "Eat your bread," she demanded in an altogether different voice, one that wouldn't take no for an answer.

At the same time, it occurred to him that in refusing her, he might be risking his life. This witch had the power to perform acts of deadly magic. What would she do if he didn't eat? Would he be cursed? Transformed perhaps, into an animals? He glanced at the billy goat, wondering if it was a goat at all but the last man to meet an unfortunate fate in the kitchens. He could easily end up on a silver platter, served as the Great Witch's foie gras.

_Would that ending be so unexpected? _He'd known the minute they'd informed him of the leader's decision that he would most like be faced with an untimely end. Even so, he'd allowed himself to hope, however small, and now it was coming back to bite him. _Well? _The cold voice in his head barked scathingly. _You're no sniveling pageboy. Stop weeping over your fate and enjoy this last meal for what it is. When's the last time you ate white bread?_

Swallowing the growing lump in his throat, he steadied himself with a gulp of ale before biting into the slice. He chewed thoughtfully, the butter melting on his tongue, and swallowed. When nothing happened, he took another, larger bite. And another, finishing it off entirely before diving straight into his stew.

Perhaps the bread was magicked in some way… or perhaps he was ravenous after all, but distress had suppressed the need for food. The end result was the same either way: the more he ate, the more he hungered. No longer caring about magic or poison, he consumed the pottage like a man starving. Each time his spoon scraped the bottom of the wooden bowl, the ladle was there to offer more; he didn't even care that no visible hand helped it dish stew from the pot. The bread was endless as well, each slice just as thick as the last. He lost count of the helpings, lost for endless minutes in the primal need to fill his empty stomach.

"That's right, dear, eat as much as you please." The witch clearly approved of his enthusiasm. She bustled about the kitchen as he ate, pulling hot bread from the oven and occasionally giving orders to the servant-less utensils floating around her head. All the while she beamed at him, happiness restored at seeing her orders followed through to the letter. "I just _knew _you were a man with a healthy appetite. I could tell the minute I clapped eyes on you."

When he finally slowed, he found himself dazed by how warm and full he was. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been able to eat this much in a single sitting; his own meager table had not been spared when the plagues wracked Labyrinthia's food stores. Surrounded by food as he was, the thought of a dwindling supply hadn't crossed his mind. Of course, it didn't help that with anxiety gnawing at his gut instead of hunger, he'd skipped more than one meal in the days leading up to the tithe.

"Heavens, child, _there _you are! I sent for you an age ago!" Turning from his cozy spot, he found that another girl—witch?—had entered the kitchens. She was a true child, hardly sixteen if that, and dressed quite… well…. He found himself blushing at the sheer impropriety. She wore a boy's breeches and jerkin, black embroidered in gold accents. Her hair was uncovered, unbound and unbraided. It hung around her bony shoulders in a way that was surely indecent. Even Rouge, with all her questionably exposed skin, still had the decency to cover her hair. _Are the customs truly so different here? _

"Forgive me, Mrs. Eclaire." The girl bowed, one arm sweeping under her in apology. Her soft voice was barely audible above the crackling hearth. "I've been at the Archive most of the afternoon, and received your message late. I hurried back as soon as I could." Barnham observed the pair quietly, taking care not to draw attention to himself. There was plenty of information that could be gleaned just from keeping his mouth shut and listening in.

Mrs. Eclaire—that was the woman's name. It hadn't occurred to him to ask for it. Was she a married woman? Widowed? Or was the moniker a sign of respect? And what was an Archive? It sounded like a place of some importance, especially if she'd spent a good portion of the afternoon there. But… did that mean it was now evening? He felt a chill raise the hair on his neck. Just how long had he slept? He'd not been given a solid answer yet.

"You know how impatient She is," Mrs. Eclaire was saying. "But it turned out well in the end, didn't it? I had the time to get a proper meal into him before he left." He knew without question who 'She' was. But that still didn't explain the girl. Was she the Great Witch's personal servant? Or—a more sinister thought—was she an executioner? That seemed laughable; he could have easily lifted her thin body over his head without breaking a sweat. But he had no more time to guess, finding himself addressed by the very person he was pondering.

"Greetings, sir." The girl offered him a courteous bow as well, and he found that her intentions concerned him more than her immodest attire. "I am Ms. Jean Greyerl, butler to Her Majesty's advisor." Butler? Advisor? Unable to separate the jumbled tangle of his thoughts into proper questions, he remained silent as she spoke. "Both Master Belduke and the Great Witch have expressed the desire to speak with you. I am here to escort you to the throne room."

"Now?" He felt stupid the moment he asked. He didn't have to look down to know that his clothing was rumpled with sleep. The stubble prickled on his cheeks and he winced, dreading the thought of how he—or his breath—must smell. "May I not wash up first?" He was in no state to be seen in front of anyone, much less a court of strangers. The importance of hygiene had been drilled into him by his old master, a man of impeccable cleanliness. A man of knightly honor did not indulge in slovenly habits.

"You could use a little freshening up," Mrs. Eclaire admitted. "But don't worry, dear. I'll have you right as rain in a jiff." She pushed her puffed sleeves further up her arms, squaring her shoulders with a determined expression. Her mouth twisted in concentration and he felt it—the same pressure as before, an invisible hand pushing steadily against his diaphragm. The last time this happened…. "Now, mind you, I've only done this on pots and pans. I'm sure it'll turn out fine, though."

"W-wait!" His heart leapt in his chest and he raised both arms, as if that would be enough to ward off her magic. "What are you—" The rest of his question was lost in a gasp, every muscle tensing; his entire body felt as though it had been plunged into freezing water. He shut his eyes on instinct, shivering as the magic seemed to trickle down him like droplets.

"My heavens, child! Whatever's the matter with you?" Eyes screwed shut, he heard rather than saw her astonishment. "You're shaking like a leaf!"

"C-c-c-cold!" he managed to force out between chattering teeth, his jaw aching as it locked. Thankfully the cold beginning to melt away in increments, limbs slowly relaxing as they warmed to the same temperature they'd been before. When he was able to open his eyes, he saw that both women were staring openly at him.

"Well, _I _didn't know," Mrs. Eclaire chuckled. "Pots and pans aren't ones to complain about the chill. Still, it woke you up proper, didn't it? You look brighter already, and a fine sight better if I do say so myself." Ms. Greyerl nodded in vehement agreement. He shifted, feeling a weight on his shoulders and heard the clacking of stones; looking down, he saw that his boots and cloak had been returned to him. The sapphires glinted on his wrists and the brooch was once again pinned neatly to his collar. He reached up but found that the wreath was gone, and stubble still graced both cheeks.

"Sorry, love." Mrs. Eclaire's brow furrowed. "The goat got to the leaves before I could stop him. I saved the beads, though, should you want them back."

"It's not that," he told her ruefully, scratching at the short hairs on his chin. "I'm normally clean shaven."

"How was I to know it?" she scoffed. "Besides, what does a little extra hair matter?" She was right; they'd probably scald it off him later, when they readied his corpse for the grand table. Still, it didn't seem right to present himself before royalty with a scruffy jaw.

"It wouldn't take me ten minutes if I could—"

"No time," Ms. Greyerl interrupted. "Her Majesty knows you're awake now. I sent word when I received Mrs. Eclaire's message." Her smile tightened at the corners. "The Great Witch is a not a woman you'd want to keep waiting."

"No, I suppose not," he replied faintly. Mrs. Eclaire patted him encouragingly on the shoulder; even though he'd been wary of her wrath, he didn't feel keen to be separated from her, either. She was the closest thing he had to a familiar face, and to leave the kitchen was to face the unknown. He knew that he must be bold and keep his wits about him, but he suddenly wanted nothing more than to remain here in the kitchens forever. Maybe he could convince the Great Witch that knights make excellent kitchen servants?

"This way, sir." Ms. Greyerl raised her hand, gesturing that should follow. "Her Majesty is awaiting you." _Be a man, Sir Barnham. Remember your training. Strength, Stability, Patience, Perseverance. These are the four pillars of knightly honor. _Repeating the mantra to himself, he pushed down the conflicting emotions and embraced the cold, empty stoicism that remained. _You do this for Labyrinthia. Remember those who depend upon you. _

"Good luck!" Mrs. Eclaire whispered, offering one final pat as he passed. He nodded an acceptance of her well wishes, not trusting a verbal reply. He was going to need all the luck he could get.


	5. Audience

Barnham had never realized how agonizing waiting could be.

While not the most patient person by any stretch of imagination, he still knew _how _to be patient. It had been hammered into him since his youngest days, first by his parents and then by his old master. Farmers were patient; they planted their crops without rushing or cutting corners. They weeded endless rows without complaint. In the end, these taxing labors were repaid with a bountiful harvest.

In much the same way, a knight's lifetime of education and harsh training was rewarded with heraldic achievement. Lords with generous purses valued the intelligence and military strategy of a knight who'd spent years of hardship honing his ability. He had learned to stomp impatience when it arose, settling instead into a fortitude that was so well-learned that it seemed natural.

However, waiting could be a torture in itself; he was starting to understand that. Ms. Greyerl had left him in the hall, instructing him to stay put before slipping into what he could only assume was the throne room. She had told him that she would first introduce him, and then he would be free to have an audience with the Great Witch once formally invited into the room. The double doors were too thick to hear anything happening on the other side; he only hoped that they weren't already expecting him in vain.

He tried to distract himself by studying the white witchlight floating high above his head, perfectly centered between all four sides of the corridor's peaked central arch. Plates of glass lined the high walls, through which he could see the orange of an autumn dusk. Pink-tinged clouds floated in and out of sight. His heart ached to stand beneath the open sky, to watch them as he had the night of the tithe. In the kitchen he hadn't felt like a prisoner, but seeing the clouds reminded him that he had no real way of escape.

Even if he _could _leave the castle, there was no way to tell in what direction he could find Labyrinthia… not that he'd ever be able to return. The village was relying on him to ensure the Great Witch's favor. If he left without completing that mission, he would be worse than a coward. He'd never be able to show his face there again.

Behind him, an embroidered tapestry took up a large portion of the wall. It appeared to depict some sort of ancient battle, but to his untrained eye there seemed to an astonishing lack of witches. The woman leading the red army might have been a witch, but she wore male armor and carried an axe, rather than a grimoire or talisman. Again he was struck by the impropriety; there seemed to be no distinction between the sexes in the realm of witches. Jeanne d'Arc had been burned at the stake for less.

The longer he was made to wait, the more time he had to contemplate what awaited him on the other side of those foreboding doors. Obviously it would be the Great Witch, but what would she look like? So far, he'd not seen a single witch that matched the dark descriptions in children's fairy tales. Both Ms. Greyerl and Mrs. Eclaire could have easily passed as normal women. It stood to reason that the Great Witch would also appear outwardly normal… right?

He turned the thought over in his mind, trying to summon a mental portrait of a witch queen. The woman who earned that title must have measure power, gained over many, many years. An old hag appeared in his mind, with gnarled limbs and a shock of long white hair. Her wild eyes knew the secrets of the universe. That was the sort of witch who could make a seasoned warrior fall to his knees and beg for his life, though he had no intentions of doing that.

The Gaels told stories of a frightful creature called _bean-nighe_, the washerwoman who foretold the hero's death the night before a battle. He could easily see the Great Witch being one and the same with this prophesying grandmother. Yes, that was the sort of horrific creature a witch queen might be.

But what of her personality? Was the Great Witch warm or cold? Calm or belligerent? Would she demand that he bow before her? Would she wait to kill him, or would her power be so great that he died the moment he dared look upon her face? He personally hoped for a quick death, as quickly as feasibly possible. If humans were able to break both mind and body with torture, what might a witch be capable of? The last thing he wanted was to be toyed with, batted about in a dungeon cell like a cat with a cornered mouse. He'd be dead of fright long before the strike of a death blow.

The door creaked open, pulling him from his thoughts; the crack was barely wide enough for Ms. Greyerl's slender body to slip through. She offered him a reassuring smile before sweeping into her lowest bow yet, the tip of her unbound hair brushing the tops of her smartly buckled shoes.

"The Great Witch will see you now, sir." Still holding the door handle, she lowered her voice until he had to lean forward to hear her. "I understand that, as an outsider, you are unaccustomed to our ways. Keep in mind that She is considered royalty by all who dwell within the Eldwitch City. It would prove beneficial for you to stay on Her good side."

"I understand. Thank you." She nodded, eyes downcast as she opened the door wider for him.

"Wait to be invited." Her voice was now less than a whisper, lips barely moving as she backed away from the heavy oak. He obeyed, steeling himself to enter the Great Witch's lair. He thought of a fly, crawling towards a spiderweb. He was conscious of his direction, yet helpless to change his fate.

"_Enter_."

He quailed at the deep voice, echoing as if spoken by ten people instead of one. _Oh, God. Oh, gods. _His mind cycled through the Christian God of the King's church, the pagan deities of the isolated Eldwitch settlements, the heathen Grecian and Roman gods he'd learned in his studies of the ancient world. He wasn't sure which ones to pray to, or if any of them would bother listening to the prayer of a dead man walking. Maybe there was a patron saint of tithes that he was meant to invoke at the hour of his death.

Somehow he managed to find himself on the other side of the door, feeling the draft flutter his cloak as it shut behind him with a deft thud. The mantra of the four pillars had long left his mind; he tried to do a calming breathing exercise, but breath was in dangerously short supply at the moment. Struggling to maintain a neutral expression, his eyes flitted around the room before landing squarely on the throne at the other end of the great hall.

It… it wasn't human. It couldn't _be _human.

There was only one eye, much larger than any normal eye and taking up most of where the head should have been. A mirror image of the heraldry on the wall hangings behind the throne, it glowed orange with an eerie inner light. The iris was a vertical slit, much like a cat's… or a serpent's. The rest of the figure was shadow—not the purple hoods of the men but true shadow, black as night. It was as cold and unyielding as death itself; he could feel the unnatural chill from where he stood. There were no arms or legs, but he knew instinctively that they were hidden somewhere beneath the murky darkness. The two conical points jutting from either side of her head might have been ears, or horns. They were dwarfed only by the enormous, jagged wings that spanned the length of the throne's pedestal, billowing softly in their own wind.

A soft groan escaped him before he could catch it, his limbs turning to mush and shaking under the new dead weight of his body. Nothing in his imagination could have prepared him for this. He understood now why they called her the Great Witch, why they insisted on his treating her with respect. She was clearly a formidable opponent; he would never be able to stand a chance in a fight against something so ancient and powerful, even with his armor and trusty blade.

The man at her right side was human by contrast, and seemed unfazed by the giant wing resting in the air behind his shoulders. He looked torn from the pages of a 14th century illuminated manuscript; he wore a long houppelande and a dark chaperon, both terribly outdated by modern standards. His hair hung in a long, sinuous ponytail down his back, save for one strand that seemed determined to escape the hat's grasp. Barnham could only assume that he was Ms. Greyerl's master, the Great Witch's advisor.

The man frowned, a crease forming between his thin brows as he tilted his head. It seemed as though he found something to measure in this newcomer to their territory. The Great Witch's head tilted as well, and he felt himself tense under the icy shock of her stare. His heart raced frantically, pulse ringing in his ears with a high-pitched whine. The door was out of reach and he felt more exposed than ever before, entirely defenseless and at the mercy of a creature who may or may not know human emotion.

"_Come closer_." Again that terrible voice! Its echoes resonated in his breast, tremors that vibrated behind his ribcage with each word. He found that, despite his earlier bravado, he could not obey the summons. His feet might have been nailed to the floor, for all that it mattered. His face was as stoic as ever, a chiseled rock with no more emotion than the stone pillars flanking either side of the main aisle. He would not scream, nor weep, nor beg for his life; this he knew. But he also knew that he would not, _could _not move.

_Forgive me, Ms. Greyerl. I might anger the Great Witch after all._

"_I said to come closer_." He felt, rather than saw, any marked change in the creature as it continued to glare. To his chagrin, the tug of magic was starting to become all too familiar—but this was different. In the forest and the kitchens, the gradual pressure had given him time to prepare. Now he'd barely been able to notice before it had come and gone, the merest flick against his awareness. If it had been a death blow, his lifeless body would have hit the ground before he could begin to understand what was taking place.

His feet left the ground and he was airborne in an instant, barely able to suck in a shocked gasp. The burgundy carpet was a blur beneath him, the arched windows flashes of light in his peripherals. His stomach had unfortunately been left at the door, flipping again and again as his center of gravity scrambled to compensate for the new position. _Please_, he thought desperately, feeling much like a piglet being manhandled by a large, invisible farmhand. _Please let me land on my feet! _

Just about the time he was properly aware of the fact that he was flying through the air, he was back on his feet… and less than an arm's length away from the Great Witch herself. His head fairly spun, knees knocking more from the shock of impact than real fear. His first thought was to sink to the floor, take two handfuls of plush carpet, and refuse to let go until he was promised that nothing like that would _ever_ happen to him again in his natural life. The second was a reminder to remain standing at all costs; any further movement would make him sick.

The immense relief at being back on solid ground gave way to terror. He realized now that he was truly helpless; the Great Witch could toss him as easily a child throws an ill-favored toy, and she had just proven it. Swallowing, he felt something new added to the mix—anger. Once again he'd been violated without his consent, forced to bend to another's whim without any thought given for his own feelings. This latter emotion burned the brightest, giving him the strength to throw back his shoulders and face the queen of witches like a proper man.

"Do _not_ do that to me again!" he ordered, each word tearing out of his throat with a growl. The eye narrowed at him and immediately his anger vanished, leaving behind a sickening mixture of horror and regret. _Have you a death wish, sir?! _Who was he to tell this creature what she could and could not do? Next time she just might decide to throw him out the nearest window instead of across the room! His teeth came together with an audible clack, jaw clenching to prevent any more wayward demands from escaping.

The man at her side cleared his throat with a mild _ahem_. The look on his face was odd, part amusement and part longsuffering patience. The advisor addressed the Great Witch, leaning forward to speak into her ear—he assumed it was where her ear might be.

"Milady," he began in a genteel drawl, "I would advise you to take care with this… erm…." He trailed off, thin lips twisting in a puzzle frown as he looked Barnham over. "This _human_," he conceded at last. "He is an outsider, unused to magic. It can be quite the jarring transition," he admitted. There was a shared sympathy in the words, enough to perk his interest. This man knew of the world outside the realm of witches. Was he also a foreigner to the Eldwitch City?

If the Witch heard him, she didn't bother with a response. A flash of gold caught Barnham's eye as she shifted. He barely quelled the flinch that threatened to undo his stoic mask, wary of another spell. But it was only a gauntlet, fashioned from what appeared to be golden plate. It was a fine piece, each polished rivet moving in sync as she flexed her fingers. A sparkling red gem in her palm turned out to be another eye, the same stylized heraldry as before. It seemed that the eye was the Great Witch's symbol.

"So, tithe." She rested her hand on a curled fist; her one eye gazed into both of his own, blinking at slow, infrequent intervals. It was hard to guess her age, with a voice so magnified. Thankfully, it seemed that the longer he listened, the easier it was to ignore its otherworldliness. It was like standing in a rainstorm and slowly forgetting how wet the world seemed; the mind simply chose to occupy itself with more pressing concerns… like when those golden claws would strike. "What do they call you?"

"I am Sir Zacharias Barnham, knight of the noble Owl's Order." He pressed his fist over his heart in the customary salute, gaining some comfort from the familiar gesture.

"And why, Sir Knight, would the humans see fit to offer _you _as my tithe?" He swore he could hear a jeering note in the question; it rubbed at his already frayed nerves, but this time he was able to bite back the scathing retort before it left his lips. Pushing back the acidic words, taking in a breath through his nose before offering the most polite answer he was capable of.

"I should think it obvious, Your Majesty."

"Hmm? How so?"

"Are you blind?" The advisor's mouth twitched in what might have been the precursor to a smirk. Again with the thoughtless words, spoken without heed and no less damning than before. _Well, _the snide inner voice quipped, _the general did say that your temper would be your undoing. _"Forgive me, milady," he backtracked quickly, "but surely you are aware that your lands have been plagued with drought and infestation."

"I don't concern myself with what happens beyond the walls of my city," she replied, bored. "With one omission: as you can guess, the annual tithe is a chief point of interest to me. Drought or no drought, the result is the same: every settlement has managed to procure and produce an acceptable tithe… excepting yours, of course."

"_Each according to his ability_—the ancient creed states that none shall give more or less than they are able. With all due respect, Labyrinthia has obeyed and offered as acceptable a tithe as any other. Do you say that my life is worth _nothing_?" he asked, more dumbfounded than offended.

"Your life has as much value as anyone's," the advisor replied cordially. "We are, however, speaking of the tithe, and… well, you're just not a very good one. No fault of your own, of course. Please try to understand."

"B-but what are we to do? What would you _have _us do? Starve to death?!" All his suppressed emotions boiled over at once, the confusion and fear and _rage _fueling the words that fell from him without pause. "There's barely enough food in our stores to last a mild winter, much less whatever this accursed season plans to throw at us next! Why should we give our last hard-earned bite to _you_? Where were _you_ when the blackbirds ate our grain? When the mice swarmed our homes? The only thing we were spared was illness, and that was by the hand of a God who saw fit to take the high priestess in our hour of need!" He balled his hands into fists, nails biting into his palms as he breathed heavily. "If you care not for what happens to your own people, then leave us in peace! Stop stealing the food from our mouths in return for your arrogant ignorance!"

_Surely now I will be struck dead on the spot, _he thought. _I said my piece and made a clean breast of it. If I die now, I go to the grave in peace._

"Excuse me…. The high priestess of Labyrinthia is dead?" The advisor seemed more upset by this than anything else he'd said. His brow furrowed, sadness drawing out the angles of his sallow cheeks. "I had no idea she was ill. I suppose the young one—Espella is her name, is it not? She is the high priestess now?"

"Aye, 'tis." He nodded.

"And it was she who saw fit to offer up a human tithe to the Great Witch?"

"No. That was the village leader… her father. The high priestess did not object to his decree. At least, she did not do so within my hearing." The advisor let out a heavy sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"The endless absurdities of humans," he grumbled, acting as though he weren't one himself. _Then again, _Barnham thought in alarm, _he might not be. _"I will see to it that this does not happen again," he said to no one in particular. "I will be writing a letter to this village leader… this is absolutely unacceptable. And as for you—"

Barnham had stopped listening; the blood had frozen in his veins at that word. _Unacceptable. _ Did this mean the unthinkable? Did they meant to refuse him as tithe? _But what about the village? _Even if she didn't care to keep tabs on them, the Great Witch still extended her protection to the settlements within her lands. What would happen to the Labyrinthians if that protection was revoked? His thoughts were awhirl with earthquakes, fires, sickness, the Northmen.

"Please!" He startled the advisor, who jumped hard enough to upset his cap. Ignoring him for the moment, he turned instead to the Great Witch. Even if he'd been abominably rude, perhaps his entreaty wouldn't fall upon deaf ears. He would not plead for himself, but for the lives that depended on him.

"Please, Your Majesty, you _must _accept me at your tithe for the year. Do not punish my village for something we couldn't help. Perhaps I am unpleasing to you in some way, but trust my claim that Labyrinthia did not mean to offend you with my presence. I am the best they could offer, so please accept me and give them the benefit of your benevolence!"

"That's not the case here!" the advisor objected. "It matters not whether the Great Witch is pleased or unpleased. The tithe, if you must know, is no more than a—"

"I beg of you, milady." Interrupting him midsentence, Barnham dropped to one knee before the shadowy figure on the throne. He bent his head, knowing that it left his neck in a very compromising position. "My people have given me as freely as they would any other tithe. They did not make this decision lightly, and so in return I ask that you extend the same courtesy in your own choice. Do not turn me away."

"B-but—!" the advisor stammered. "Hear me out, sir: you are all in confusion. You know not of what you speak! The tithe is simply a way of—"

"Be still." The Great Witch raised her gauntlet, fingers spread, and he fell into a terse silence. "Look at me, Sir Knight." The echoing voice softened; he could almost hear one silver tone beneath the others. His eyes lifted to meet hers, throat tight with nerves as he awaited her ruling. "Do you mean to say that you are ready to willingly give up your life for this village?"

"Aye, milady."

"Then you are a very honorable man indeed." He didn't feel honorable at all, but he accepted the compliment with all the grace he could muster. "Upon your feet, sir." He obeyed, standing perfectly still as he awaited her verdict.

She studied him for what seemed like an eternity, one golden finger tapping on… on her eyeball? Something about that didn't seem right—perhaps witches couldn't feel pain in the same way humans did? He blinked and the shadows shifted, rippling in the wake of his bafflement. Before he could properly focus on them, she began to speak.

"I have made a decision," she announced, both to him and the man at her side. "I will accept you as my tithe, but only on one condition."

"M-milady?!" The advisor seemed appalled at the statement, eyes wide and mouth hanging open as he gazed unabashedly at his queen. "Milady, what on earth are you—"

"What is the condition?" Barnham felt too calm. He knew it to be the stillness before a thunderclap; his shock was allowing him a split second of peace.

"The condition is this: if you wish to remain in my realm, you must become… my consort." The advisor's pale face lost what color it had, his breath sputtering in the wake of her voice. _Consort? _He knew what a consort was; after all, the reigning monarch of England had one. A consort was the spouse of royalty, someone who shared their rank and status. Slowly, too slowly, the implication sank in.

If he was to stay, he would have to wed himself to this… this _thing_. He would bind himself to her for life, through all states, until death finally parted them for good. What would that mean for him? Would he be forced to accept tender caresses from those sharp golden claws? How could he kiss a mouth hidden by shadow? And—worst of all—was he expected to bed her?!

In order to rise above his social class, he'd have to marry some lord's daughter; he'd accepted that, long ago. He'd also decided that if he could not bring himself to love her, he'd put that love into their eventual children instead. But the faceless woman in his thoughts of the future had always been a human. How could he ever learn to love something with no defined body to speak of? How could he treasure a wife with one eye and wings?

"Well?" the voice was definitely less echoing this time, and far more amused. "I'm waiting for an answer, Sir Knight. I've made you a reasonable offer, but I am not a patient woman; if you keep me waiting much longer, I'll have to retract it." There was only one real choice. Refusing meant putting his village and its people in mortal danger. They relied on the Great Witch's protection to keep them safe.

At the same time, his heart trembled at the thought of accepting this monster as his wife. How long was a lifetime with the Great Witch? Would she eat him on their wedding night, or curse him to spend an eternity at her side? Would his suffering be over only when his dried husk of a body crumbled into dust?

"I… I…." The advisor was imploring him with his eyes, unwilling to speak after being told to hold his tongue. Barnham could see the clear plea in his deep blue irises, but had no way of knowing what it meant. Was he begging him to refuse, or accept? The choice would have to be his, and his alone. Bowing his head, he clenched his fists in surrender. "I accept your offer." He felt the curl of her unseen grin crawling on his skin.

"_Good_. Let us seal our contract with a kiss. My advisor will stand as our witness." Her advisor looked as though he might not be able to stand much longer without assistance; passing a hand over his eyes, he shook his head before giving them a pained grimace. Barnham felt a small sympathy for him, but his mind was on bigger problems. One of his questions was about to be answered much sooner than he expected.

"How am I to kiss you if I cannot see your mouth?" The Great Witch paused, and then to his astonishment she laughed. It rang like a bell throughout the throne room, loud peals completely devoid of the previously terrifying echo. It was a young, hearty laugh, and sounded surprisingly pleasant to his ears.

"Hold still, my knight." _My? _The Great Witch stood for the first time; he noticed that, if not for the horns and wings, she would look much smaller. The tip of her eye only reached to his collarbone, forcing him to look down if he wanted to meet her gaze. If her mouth was in the same general area as a human's—he certainly hoped so—then he would have no choice but to bend down if he wanted to kiss her properly. If only he could see the rest of her face instead of empty, bleak shadow! Then perhaps the thought of kissing her would be more… appealing?

"Milady…." the advisor said, his voice small. They both ignored him. She probably her own, unknown reasons; he couldn't bring himself to focus on anything past the looming cat-eye pupil. Again he felt the force of her smile as she crooked a single finger, inviting him to lean down. _This is it… no going back now, Zacharias. As if there was anything to return to. _He bent his head, forcing his eyes shut when hers grew too close for comfort.

The first touch of her mouth was a surprise. He'd not heard her move, not even the rustle of cloth; either she was eerily quiet, or he'd once again been too caught up in his own thoughts to pay attention to the world around him. The latter didn't bode well for a knight's senses.

He tried to make amends by mapping the shape of her lips as they pressed against his. Definitely a human mouth, or at least shaped like one. Soft, thin lips, sticky with something he recognized as a ladies' cosmetics. _Why does the Great Witch paint her lips when no one can see them?_

He waited for the first brush of a true kiss, but it never came. She instead pressed up into him firmly, with an insistence that caught him off-guard. _Has she never kissed before? _Puzzled, he tried to change the angle and bumped his nose against what felt like a very normal, very _human _one… though a little smaller. The Great Witch gasped into his mouth, the icy palms of her gauntlets grabbing at his cheeks firmly; that was enough to force him back, unwilling to have her hands so close to his face.

"There. We've kissed, and the contract is sealed." He wiped at his mouth with the heel of his hand, finding that it came back tinted purple. He waited for the quip, the mocking laugh, even the return of her multi-echoed timbre. Nothing came; the Great Witch was silent, standing where he'd left her. Slowly, golden fingers rose to touch tentatively at the shadows where her mouth should be—was, if the kiss was anything to go on.

_Her face is normal, beneath the shadows. _Again, the darkness rippled in a way that made him blink rapidly. The inquisitive side of his mind wanted to mull over the information, to pick it apart and see what it all meant. He was too tired for that, though; the adrenaline was leaving his body drained. He wanted nothing more than to go back to the kitchens, to curl up on his haystack and sleep until next year's tithe.

"_Ahem._" The advisor stood before him, hands locked behind his back. "I believe that's enough excitement for one evening?" he asked, one brow arching imperiously. Barnham, for one, agreed wholeheartedly. It must have shown in his expression, for the advisor's softened as he nodded towards the oaken doors. "Seeing as you will be staying for… well, for some time, I might as well escort you to your new chambers."

"Can't I go back?" The advisor bristled.

"After begging to stay?" He laughed incredulously. "I'd think not, sir."

"No, no. I meant… back to the kitchen." He licked his lips nervously. "To Mrs. Eclaire."

"Heavens, no." The advisor tsked, tongue tapping lightly against his upper teeth. "That woman's mothered you enough for one day. Oh, don't—very well, you can see her _tomorrow_," he added quickly, guarding against the crestfallen look that crossed Barnham's face. "You're a future consort, not a scullery maid. You'll be needing proper rooms that befit your new status."

"My new status?"

"Yes," he answered patiently. "I'll explain along the way." He turned to the Great Witch, pursing his lips. "And as for you, milady—there are few choice matters I feel the need to discuss with you." Barnham balked at the familiar tone, so different from his earlier formality. It was as if this advisor saw fit to scold his own queen! But surely that wasn't the case, was it? "I will return as quickly as possible, so please do me the courtesy of remaining here."

"Yes, of course." The Great Witch sounded subdued.

"Very well then. Shall we, Sir Barnham?"

"Good-bye." Why was he still speaking to her? Was it the shock that had stolen his fear, or the kiss? Either way, he found himself oddly… nonplussed. He didn't know what to make of her anymore. "I will be seeing you." The shadows didn't move, but the eye glanced at him as he offered a bow.

"Good evening." He could feel her staring at him long after he passed through the door. He was halfway down the hall before he realized that he'd heard her voice once before. It was the same one from his bewitched slumber, the whisper that accompanied soft fingers as they brushed over his face.

"My knight."


	6. Air

_**Author's Note: I fixed whatever was up with Ch. 5; thanks to those who pointed it out! I have no clue what happened….**_

* * *

_I will never be able to find my way out of this place._

"Your chambers will be in the tower… come along, if you please." The Great Witch's advisor minced no words as he hurried down the corridor, fully expecting Barnham to keep up with his long strides. The throne room was far behind them, and with every turn and staircase he found himself getting more and more confused.

It didn't help that many, if not all, of the corridors looked virtually alike. The floors were checkered tile, polished until it gleamed without a single scuff mark in sight. Witchlight glowed both from sconces and large chandeliers overhead. Only the view from the arched windows changed: a sprawling city, surrounded by an enormous wall that seemed to curve inward over the minuscule houses and winding streets. It put him in the mind of a mother hen protectively spreading her wings over a brood of chicks.

Servants stepped aside as they passed, bowing low with downcast eyes and respectful, murmured greetings. He felt their curious stares, a blush burning the tips of his ears as they began to converse behind him in hushed whispers. He wasn't used to being the center of attention—at least, not in this way. Setting his jaw, he forced a gulp around the lump in his throat and hastened to catch up with the advisor.

Passing through a large archway, he found himself at the bottom of yet _another _flight of stairs. The area was bathed in a pale red glow, very different from the flickering white-blue witchlight. Looking up, he found that the entire ceiling was an ornate window of stained glass; the same eye heraldry found in the throne room was mirrored at the center of countless colored panels.

"This way," the advisor called down, already ascending to the upper levels. "This tower holds the family suites," he explained as they climbed, one hand steadying himself on the railing. "When you officially take the title of consort, you will be given a new suite of rooms closer to the summit. But until then… ah, yes." He paused before a thin wooden door. "This must be it."

Barnham stared at the door in utter bafflement. No placard or sign denoted his name; no servant stood at the ready to attend him. There was no indication that this door was any different than those they'd passed in the corridors. How, then, did the man know that this was to be his bedchamber?

Even more so… how had there been time to properly make up a room? From the way the advisor had spoken to him in the throne room, it was apparent that they'd been ready to send him back to Labyrinthia. Until the Great Witch had declared it, no one had known that he would be accepted as tithe and allowed to stay. Did the servants keep certain rooms in constant readiness at all times? Or was the answer something more arcane?

He felt like a fool, but was resigned to his ignorance. _An intelligent man is one who questions the world and all in it; _that was one of the old captain's favored sayings. Normal life was a thing of the past—it had been ripped from him, and now he found himself in a land where magic was not only possible, but expected. If he wished to gain any sort of footing in this new world, he could not afford to remain silent and confused.

"I beg your pardon, but… how do you know that these are my chambers?"

"Hmm?" The advisor glanced at him, brow furrowing. "What do—ah. How quickly we forget," he sighed, shaking his head dismissively. "You must be very puzzled by what you see," he added, not unkindly. "Or, rather, by what you can't see. But don't worry about that just yet. It will come, given enough time."

"Pardon?" _What on earth is he talking about? My eyesight is fine! _ "I can see quite well, sir," he protested, remembering at the last moment to tack on a respectful title. The advisor seemed to be on his side—at least, so far as he could tell—but that didn't mean he couldn't still make an inadvertent enemy. If he was truly to marry that monstrosity of a Great Witch, he would need every ally he could find. "I need no spectacles."

"No, no, that's not what I mean. How might I explain it…?" He laced his long fingers together, steepling them beneath his chin as he thought. "Think of it as air. Since the day you emerged from your mother's womb, you have been surrounded by it. You feel the wind on your bare face, catch a scent on the breeze. And, more importantly, you do so without thought—it is simply the nature of your world. But although you can smell it, touch it, taste it… you cannot _see _air."

"That is not so," Barnham argued. "What about the trees? Tall grass? They bend in the wind, and—"

"You are right. You see the trees bend, but never the wind that pushes them," the advisor said patiently. "Such is also the way with magic; all your life it has surrounded you, but it has also escaped your notice. To see magic is to see air."

"But—'tis impossible! You said so just now; we cannot see the wind unless—"

"No, that's—perhaps that was not the best allusion…." He frowned. "Forgive me; I've never had to explain this to anyone before. It's hard to find the proper words, especially for someone who has so little knowledge… I might as well explain alchemy to a newborn."

"Do not mistake my meaning!" he added quickly, sensing that his words had been perceived as an insult. "I am not unfamiliar with the Owl's Order—they existed in my time as well. Being accepted into their ranks is a clear mark of your intelligence. But in matters of magic, you are little better than an infant. You cannot learn to walk before you've learned to crawl."

"I understand, sir."

"You will be introduced to concepts entirely foreign to you." He smiled sympathetically. "Luckily, it gets easier with time. And trust me: you'll soon have more of _that _than you'll know what to do with."

"What do you mean?" The advisor shook his head.

"No more at the present. It's easy to see that you are exhausted. Come: what you need now is a warm hearth and a warmer bed." He opened the door, ushering him through with his free hand. "See?"

He did see; it was as if he'd stepped through time and was standing in the doorway of his bedroom at home. The layout was exactly the same: the heavy four poster bed with its wolf pelt covering, the battered desk before the window, the wooden table and chair beside the grate, even the large oak chest that held most of his personal belongings. A fire glowed cheerfully in the hearth, and the bedclothes were turned back as though expecting him.

If the advisor hadn't been standing directly in front of him, he might have convinced himself that the last few hours were one wild delusion. Walking to the window, he pushed back the damask curtains and peered out, almost expecting to see Labyrinthia's rocky hills. Instead the forest was a waving emerald sea beneath him, leaves glittering in the evening sun. On the horizon, clouds cast hazy shadows on the moorland. His heart swelled with relief at the calming sight, much more suited to him than the city skyline.

"What… how?" he finally managed to ask, turning back to the well-lit room. It was too much to take in at once. Overwhelmed, he sank to the foot of the bed, fingers tangling in the familiar wolfskin. "I don't understand? This is—this is my room." The advisor nodded, but it was clear that he didn't understand what Barnham was trying to say.

"Yes, your room." _No, _Barnham wanted to say, frustration welling in his chest. He was too tired for it to properly take hold, bubbling up into his throat before simmering just as quickly. He leaned against the bedpost, watching the man as he surveyed the rustic décor with interest. "When I was in your position, my room was on the ground floor. You've chosen something a few stories higher… high enough to see over the wall, I presume? Quite intriguing."

"But still…" He roused himself to speak, every word ringing with weariness. "How?"

"These rooms will take the form of what you most desire." He waved at the bed. "The castle's magic has provided what it thought you'd find most comfortable. Was it wrong? I wouldn't be surprised. Magic often requires a certain calmness of spirit, and your emotions have been running high for some time now."

"No! I mean, it did not choose wrong. This is my bedroom at home… my old home, I should say," he said glumly. "In fact, it's exactly the—" _No. _There was one difference, made starkly apparent by the empty wooden frame pushed into the far corner. His heart stuttered against his breastbone, aching so that he could barely stand it. One thing was missing… the most important thing in the room. "Where is my armor? Could the magic not be contrived to bring that, too?"

"It cannot _bring _anything," the advisor corrected him. "It can only create. You may recognize this furniture as being your own, but it is merely a replica based upon your desires. You desire your room at home, and so the magic brought it to you in the only way it could. So, to answer your question: no, it could not. If the castle thought you desired it, it would attempt to make a copy for you. But it has not…" he trailed off, and Barnham nodded his understanding.

"…because that is not what I desire. What I want most is my old armor, and a knight's soul cannot be replaced so easily," he admitted. "It was not in my bedroom when they—when I was escorted to the temple."

"Then there is nothing to be done." The advisor shrugged. "Magic has its limits." His tone was nonchalant, and yet it seemed to rub against Barnham's last frayed nerve. The day's events had finally caught up with him, or perhaps the shock was wearing off. Either way, he was helpless to the onslaught of emotion, able to do little more than grit his teeth against the outburst threatening to claw its way past his throat.

Was this truly the life he'd been reduced to? A witch's plaything, kept and groomed as a favored pet? Married to a fiend—a miserable, loveless union at best, if his fate wasn't to be eaten on his wedding night—and constantly at the mercy of powers he had no hope of understanding? It would be just as cruel to cage a wild beast, expecting it to bend to its new masters without a fight. But he could not fight back. This was his solemn duty, the honor to which he'd been condemned by his peers. In the Great Witch's throne room, he'd bent onto one knee and _begged _for this to be the outcome. And yet, there was no gratitude in his heart.

"First it was floating pots, then being yanked about like a child… now magical bedchambers and seeing the air—" He was suddenly glad that he was seated; his head fairly spun with it all. "There's too much to learn."

"Nonsense! You'll be taking lessons, of course."

"And just _who _is to be my teacher?"

"I will," he stated simply. "As former consort, one of my duties is to train the man who will become my replacement. It's a task I'm admittedly looking forward to; we'll start as soon as you're settled."

"Former—so you are from outside! You know of the world beyond the realm of witches! " A jolt ran down his spine at the thought. This man was more than an advisor, he was a kindred spirit, a fellow prisoner. Barnham leapt to his feet, holding onto to the bedpost as he continued. "When did you come here? Did they steal you as well? Those heartless daughters of—"

"_Ahem._" A polite cough interrupted his tirade before it could truly begin. The advisor arched one serene brow, lips quirking as he spoke. "Before you continue, it would do you well to realize that the current Great Witch is my daughter."

_Oh?_

"And her predecessor—her mother—is my wife."

_Oh._

"I would advise you to tread lightly around that subject. After all, the former is soon to be _your _wife. And furthermore: I was not stolen, and neither were you. Unless, of course, you are a liar."

_**Oh.**_

"My apologies… I meant no offense towards you. I am sure that—"

"I'm quite fond of my daughter," he interrupted, "and I am utterly devoted to my wife, even if—even with circumstances being what they are."

"Truly I am—"

"_But_ I am not so old as to forget my own initiate period." His blue-green eyes twinkled, and Barnham realized that he was being teased. "I was in your position once: exhausted, frightened, confused… full of endless questions that seemed to have no simple answer. My father-in-law—rest his soul—was a patient man, and a large help to me. I can only hope that you'll consider me the same."

"I understand," he repeated helplessly. "But, permit me to ask one more question—if you were not stolen by the witches, then how did you—"

"Another day!" The advisor waved the question away as though it were a pesky insect. "If I explain it all tonight, then what will you have to look forward to tomorrow? Let that be my first piece of advice to you, young man… er, Zacharias, was it not?"

"Aye, sir. Zacharias Barnham."

"Well then, Zacharias Barnham." He nodded. "I am setting off tonight on a journey that will take the better part of three days; I'd tell you where I must go, but I'm afraid that it would only confuse you more. When I return, we shall begin your lessons. Until then, I would suggest that you explore."

"E-explore? Sir?"

"Yes, explore. You will find settling into your new life much easier once you discover something to look forward to each day. The Eldwitch City is vast, and the surrounding lands even more so. There's more than forest beyond the gates, you know: ruins, plains, a lake…. You can find maps of both city and countryside in the Great Archive. The archivists will be more than happy to assist you."

"City? Countryside…? You mean that I am allowed to leave the castle grounds?" This was greeted with a look of pure amazement. The advisor's brows arched high on his forehead, lips parting as he searched for words.

"You—you do realize that you are not a prisoner here?" He seemed appalled at the very notion. "You may go where you please. I would ask that you remain within the High Eldwitch area. The surrounding forest is full of brigands and scavengers, but you will be safe within the city's reach." He cleared his throat. "And… there is one more thing I think you ought to be aware of, or at least keep in mind."

"What is that?"

"You are the Great Witch's consort now, Sir Barnham. Or rather, you will be, and soon. You are now the most important man in the city and you will be treated as such, without exception."

"I… truly?" He felt the staggering weight of those words on his shoulders, almost as heavy as the burden of tithe. "Why?"

"As her partner, the consort is the Great Witch's equal. Even more importantly, he is the father of her successor. The Great Witch and her consort are the closest thing that witches recognize as royalty; there is no higher position in the land. You will be treated with respect and authority, the likes of which you've never seen before. You may ask anything of your citizens, and your demands will be carried out without question."

"I did not realize." The very thought was daunting. Him, royalty? The Great Witch was ruler over her kind; he remembered that much from the old tales. But not once had he considered any of that governing power being transferred to him. Consorts weren't recognized as equals—at least, not in any system he was familiar with. Then again, he was now in a realm where magic was real and women wore trousers. Government in this world wouldn't make any sense unless it too was turned on its head.

"It goes even beyond that. When you take my daughter as your bride, you will be gifted certain powers that—I will cover it later. It is far too much to explain at the moment. What matters is that you understand this responsibility, and never abuse it for your own gain."

"Of course not. I understand completely."

"You do not," the advisor chuckled, "but in time, you will. You seem to me a judicious man—if you are kind, and just, then the people will gladly honor you for it. They will naturally be curious about you; we get so few outsiders to our city. And there hasn't been a new consort for well over two centuries."

"_Two—?!_"

"Word will spread quickly; it always does. By this time tomorrow, there won't be a soul in the city who doesn't know your name. No, Sir Barnham—you are no prisoner here. On the contrary: you are something of a celebrity." Before he could attempt an answer, the desk clock chimed the hour. The familiarity of those four happy bells sparked a deep ache in his chest.

"Ah." The advisor clucked. "It's growing late. I must be going, if I'm to be back in time to start your lessons next week. Come here a moment." He took Barnham's wrist, shaking back the sleeve and taking his pulse with a studious frown. Barnham froze under the touch, feeling his heartbeat fight the insistent press of the man's cool fingers. _Is he some sort of physician as well?_ "Hmm."

"Is… is something wrong?"

"No, but I do feel that I must warn you: you may feel strange for a day or two. You see, the Eldwitch City is one of a few places in the world where the concentration of magic is unusually high. Even most humans are easily able to work spells and incantations. But your body, having come from beyond the High border, is not used to being so thoroughly saturated with magic. You will adjust to it, but it will take a few days. In the meantime… tell me, have you any prior experience with long illness?"

"Yes, once. When I was a child, my family fell ill with fever. I survived, although my parents did not." The advisor nodded.

"Good, then you will remember the convalescent period—the weakness that followed the fever's breaking."

"Aye, I remember it well." A normally robust child, he'd only been able to rise from his sickbed long enough to bury his parents in the graveyard. Unable to make the journey to his new home, he'd spent countless weeks at a neighbor's hearthside. He still recalled the unshakeable chill, how his teeth chattered even when bundled head to toe in all their spare bedding.

"Your body will feel similar to that as the magic settles. It may be harder to concentrate, and you might find yourself tiring more easily. Possibly you are already starting to feel these effects. This is normal, and it will pass. Don't overexert yourself for the next day or so; take a break if you feel the need to rest. Eat properly, and often—I'm sure I don't need to tell you twice. You may even return to the kitchen," he added wryly.

"And while you're down there, you might convince Mrs. Eclaire to make the odd crostata." He paused, one finger poised at his chin. "I'm rather fond of them, you see, but she is _such _an advocate for traditional English fare."

"Still, she might listen to you, seeing as you've found yourself on her good side."

* * *

There was always much to do before a journey to the Realm of the Dead, and Newton found himself woefully unprepared for this one. It was partly his own fault; he usually had a far better grasp on his thoughts. Currently they were bouncing around the confines of his mind like spilled lentils, virtually impossible to gather.

The Great Witches of ages past would have to be informed both of the unusual tithe and their progeny's uncouth decision. The thought of that unavoidable meeting filled him with a sinking dread. He felt much like a condemned soul catching his first glimpse of the hangman's noose. _What on earth will they say? _

He'd been quick to learn, in his research of the Archive records, that they were in a rare predicament. Never before in written history had a tithe been a lone human sacrifice, freely given by his own people. However, he'd found something similar enough.

During the first Crusade, the Great Witch had been gifted prisoners of war as a portion of the tithe. Reading on, he'd found that she had rejected them all, taking instead a passel of hogs and two bolts of silk as an even exchange. The silk was used to create a new veil for the Great Witch, and the hogs had ended up on a farm near the southern border. The rejected prisoners had clearly been deemed unimportant, as no one had bothered to record their fate.

True, it was a stretch: more often than not, prisoners of war were not willing subjects in the slightest. What mattered was that they were living men; the distinction had been enough to devise a plan. He needed to offer Labyrinthia the option to find an exchange. More importantly, he needed to ensure that no other village had the same foolish idea in the future.

With the Great Witch publicly rejecting the tithe, he'd be killing two birds with one stone. But how was he supposed to know that the boy would fall to his knees and _beg _to remain? And furthermore, he was certain that no one—not even the ancestors—could have predicted how his daughter would react.

Eve was terrified of the outside world. The incident in the forest had marked her in more ways than one; the scar on her right hand was nothing compared to the wounds on her heart. She no longer ventured past the gates, and hid whenever the rare caravan visited the city. He hadn't expected her to allow this outsider anywhere near the throne, at least while conscious. But she had seemed more curious than frightened, and in the end the unthinkable happened: she declared him her consort… and, even worse, he'd accepted.

_Oh, gods… what will they say? _He wished to ask the Great Witches for advice; that was the true nature of his position, after all. At the same time, he was also afraid of their censure. What if they found his judgement lacking in wisdom? He was sure they'd find Eve's decision to be a faulty one. Choices made in haste are often prone to disaster; how often had he heard the same during his initiate period?

The Great Witches could order him to intervene, give him no choice but to send the tithe home. If that were the case, then… what would he do? He already knew the answer: he would honor their ruling and immediately obey. They were the only ones allowed to overrule the current Great Witch, and he was at their mercy. He knew his place in the world; his training in that aspect had been more than thorough.

But… did it _have _to be him?! True, it was no secret that he'd been against the decision from the start. Completely blindsided, words had failed him as he'd watched the scene unfold in the throne room. If only she had asked for some sort of direction, that he might have had the chance to prevent this!

Still, the only thing worse than letting him stay would be forcing him to go. Eve already had her heart set on the boy; it would be ripped to shreds if he was torn from her. As a father, he had no desire to see her heartbroken. But what if he was given no choice?

There was only one person he could pin his hopes on now: her mother. If he had to argue Eve's case before the Council of Witches, her support would undoubtedly prove an invaluable asset. He had to put his faith in her; if only he could fill her in beforehand! He prayed that she would find him early, before it was time to make his appearance.

"Must you go, Papa?" Eve watched him as he bustled about the laboratory. In the protected space she'd completely removed the glamour, mask balanced on her lap and veil loose around her neck. Her eyes flickered with sadness, glowing in the light from the brazier beside her chair. Too busy to give the question much attention, he found himself answering without thought.

"Of course I must go! And why wouldn't I?" He threw open his satchel, sweeping rolls of paper from his desk and stuffing them down amidst the other oddities. There would be time enough for him to sort out what was and was not important later; he always lingered in the Realm of the Dead.

"I would have anyway, to report the tithe." He was duty-bound to offer a report on the year's gain, whether good or bad. For the longest time he'd thought it something of a chore, reading list after list of dull figures that no one, not even the Witches, seemed particularly enthused about. But now he could understand why such measures were in place. "This is an unprecedented event; the Great Witches must know. There's no time to delay."

"I know that, but… you will return soon, won't you?" The acute loneliness in her voice was enough to give him pause. "It's just that last time you were, well…" she trailed off, plucking at the folds of her veil.

"That was a miscalculation on my part. I never meant to stay gone so long." He sighed, running a weary hand over his face. "This is not an exact science, you realize. I am going purely by my own estimation. Do you know how hard that is to do, in a place where time has no real meaning?"

"No," she replied, despondent. "How could I, when I'm not allowed to come with you?"

"Eve—" He bit back the sharp words, forcing a breath through his nose. His impatience might flare, but it could not be allowed to burn. It wasn't her fault that this was the way of the world; it had been decided long before she, or her mother, or her mother's mother had ever been conceived. It was only natural that she be lonely, with both parents attending their duties in another realm.

"I hope to return very soon; within three days, perhaps. Until then, you will simply have to occupy yourself with something else. Now, have you anything for your mother?" He asked each time he made the journey, just in case. There was usually a letter or two for him to ferry over the threshold; a poor substitution, in his opinion, but they bore the separation far better than Demeter and _her_ child.

"No, but give her my love. I wish she were here."

"I know, my dear." He placed a gentle hand on the crown of her head. "Do try to smile. I won't be gone long." She gazed up at him mournfully. _She'd do well with a task of her own, _he thought. As if by Providence, the perfect idea came to mind. "I want you to do me a favor."

"Yes, Papa. Anything."

"I've given your consort strict orders to be modest in his exertions." Her expression smoothed into a soft smile at the mention of the boy. "He must eat and sleep properly, so that his body can adjust to our realm. I'd like you to watch after him, and make sure that he follows my instructions."

"Of course!" She brightened. "I'll do so gladly." Her fingertips pressed against her mouth, and he knew that she was remembering the kiss she'd weaseled out of him in the throne room.

"He is to have three square meals a day—_three_, and with a healthy assortment of vegetables at each. I don't want him out of bed before daybreak. He's been given leave to explore the area, but he should be back at the castle by sundown each day." At the mention of exploring, she visibly tensed.

"He can't do that." _Ah, here we go. _"He needs to stay here, in the castle. I'll speak with him tomorrow and make sure he understands." She was digging her heels into an argument; he could already feel the tension rising in the air between them.

"You will do no such thing." He didn't often feel the need to be firm with her, but this had to stop _now_. If she had her way, the poor lad would be kept chained in his room. She could not be allowed to treat him as a pet, ordered about and caged at her whim. The sooner she realized that, the better off they'd all be. "As long as he's back home at a reasonable hour, he's allowed to go where he pleases, when he pleases it. I've already given my word, and I expect it to be followed."

"But Papa, you just said that he shouldn't over—"

"I know what I said. The boy shouldn't be running a marathon, but fresh air and light exercise will only do him good. No ill person ever benefited from being…" He fought a shudder at the memories that threatened to surface. The endless tolling of bells, the stench of illness, the utter despair of knowing that each new death meant another forty days in that hot, stale darkness— Those were hellish times, filled with things he'd rather forget. "From being cooped up," he finished instead, sternly.

"And what if he goes past the gate?" Again he paused, hearing the undercurrent of emotion in her words. This time, instead of loneliness, it was fear. "What am I to do then? I cannot follow him."

"If you are worried about him, then you will find a way to follow."

"I _cannot_!" Her sharp tone bordered on panic, and he knew that he was at a proverbial brick wall. There was no way over, no way under, and he'd not yet found the way to break through. He could do nothing to help her, other than offer encouragement as she tried to find her own way around.

"Then do not."

"But what if he leaves and never returns?"

"If that is the case, he's unworthy to be your consort. That's not the sort of person you'd want to marry; a man who can't keep one vow certainly won't bother with two," he answered shrewdly. "He is to be your partner, Eve. Your _equal. _You must be willing to trust him."

"But—"

"And while we're on the subject: do give him room to breathe, won't you? Put yourself in his situation. He's been taken from his home, his friends, his _life_, and dropped alone in a world where nothing makes proper sense. In his eyes this is a strange world, full of potential enemies. You and I know that's untrue, of course, but he must be allowed to see it for himself. We will have to earn his trust."

"His trust…."

"In time, he will come to understand that no one here wishes him harm. _In time_. You are—forgive me, child, but you can be overbearing, especially when your inquisitive nature gets the better of you. If he demands space, then let him have it. And for God's sake, _don't _toss him about the way you did this afternoon. I don't want the boy dead of fright before I have time to begin his lessons."

"Oh, I never meant to frighten him," she replied flippantly. "He simply wasn't moving fast enough for my tastes."

"Then learn some patience!" He grit his teeth. "Until the magic settles in his bones, he will be unable to see past your glamour. To him, you're something to be frightened of. This young man is an outsider; he doesn't see you as a ruler. You are a threat."

"I won't hurt him. I'd never do that."

"I know that, but he does not. You must treat him as… as you might a stray animal. Approach him slowly and speak softly. If he runs, don't chase after him. When he sees that you mean now harm, he will come to you. This is all very new for him, Eve. He must be allowed time to come to terms with what he's agreed to."

"That's going to take ages!" she pouted. "I don't have that kind of time."

"If there's one thing no one is running short of around here, young lady, it's time." He forced the satchel closed, tightening the buckle before slinging the strap across his middle. "Just remember to treat him as you would any favored guest in your home. Manners maketh man."

"If you say so." He adjusted his gauntlet, casting one last look at the cleared workbench to make sure that nothing had been overlooked.

"Come now," he ordered, ushering her up the stairs. The brazier was extinguished with a wave of his hand, the witchlight following them out of the room and the locks sliding into place as he shut the door. "Now… if there's nothing else, then I'll be off."

"Very well then." Eve pulled the veil back over her hair, adjusting the helm of her mask so that her face was still mostly exposed. There was admittedly little danger of the boy making it downstairs before sunrise, but she had been taught since childhood that preparedness was key. Tradition all but demanded it: a consort was not allowed to see his bride's eyes before the wedding night.

"Be a good girl, and remember what I've told you." Perhaps she was too old to hear that sort of speech, but it was habit. He'd said variations of the same ever since she was a child, clinging affectionately to his legs as he prepared to take his leave. "I'll be home soon."

"Good-bye, Papa." She took his gauntlet in both her own, kissing it respectfully and leaving a faint purple imprint on the metal. "Have a safe journey. Give my regards to everyone."

"I shall. See you soon." With one final nod, he was off. Determined not to look back over his shoulder, he set his jaw as he rounded the corner, passing through the foyer on his way to the grand staircase leading to the upper story. He'd told her to put her trust in her new fiancé, and now he had to put his trust in _her_. At a time like this, he couldn't afford to play the hypocrite.

Eve was an excellent daughter, a sensible girl and an ethical ruler. She was well-versed in the old ways and, despite her natural playfulness, knew when to put on a serious face. She was perfectly capable of running the city on her own; she _was _the Great Witch, after all. And besides—if the need for assistance arose, Jean would be there to serve their Lady in his stead.

_Still, _he thought as he climbed the staircase, _I hope she behaves herself. She is so young…. _Being her father didn't make him entirely blind to her faults. She could be obstinate, impatient, even bothersome at times… especially when put out. He knew it was partly his fault; she was his only child, and he'd been captivated by her smiles and laughter. He'd indulged her whims too often, and was currently paying the price. Now she was used to getting her own way, and she had the magical ability to back up her demands.

Thankfully, most of her orders were admittedly reasonable ones. But she could be foolhardy at times, acting first and thinking second. It was well that the lad had been a former knight. Hopefully his combat training had made him less… flappable.

When she had hoisted him into the air like a flailing goldfish, Newton had feared the worst. He'd seen humans go mad—or at least go unconscious— from far less. To his credit, the boy had showed a certain strength of spirit; not only had he recovered relatively quickly, but he'd also challenged her with a snappy retort. That was the sort of personality that would pair well with his Eve; even _he _had to admit that, however reluctantly.

The door to the Realm of the Dead stood at the far end of the longest corridor. The heavy mahogany structure towered over him, seemingly larger than life. The Witch's crest had been carved into the center of the door; each point of the eye ran from frame to frame, the sclera inlaid with lighter beechwood and the pupil one massive ruby. He didn't need his magical perception to feel the aura radiating from behind the door; it seemed to engulf him, lifting the fine hairs on his arms and bathing him in a faint air of apprehension.

The human servants refused to set foot on this end of the corridor, and many of the witch servants avoided it as well. Even if they didn't understand why it made them so uneasy, he could see the way the tension in their muscles whenever they were forced to gaze at it from afar. The fear of death is instinctual; only by facing it head-on could he hope to commune with those who had passed on.

He opened the door, breathing in the night air as it lifted the bangs from his face. From the landing, the door appeared to open into thin air. The city's lights were spread beneath his boots, witchlight and firelight casting a cozy glow through countless windows. He'd told the boy that to see magic was to see air. That was true enough, but to _work _magic was something else entirely. One had to trust the unknown, to offer without expecting in return… even to embrace something as final and fearsome as death. _He will learn, just as I did._

He closed his eyes, stepping forward into the endless night.


End file.
